This is Sunday, and the question arises, what’ll I start tomorrow?
There is nothing intelligent to say about a massacre. Everybody is supposed to be dead, to never say anything or want anything ever again. Everything is supposed to be very quiet after a massacre, and it always is, except for the birds.
There is never a shortage anywhere of lawyers eager to attack the First Amendment, as though it were nothing more than a clause in a lease from a crooked slumlord.
There is love enough in this world for everybody, if people will just look.
The year was 2081, and everyone was finally equal.
The worst thing that could possibly happen to anybody, would be to not be used for anything by anybody.
The telling of jokes is an art of its own, and it always rises from some emotional threat. The best jokes are dangerous, and dangerous because they are in some way truthful.
The public health authorities never mention the main reason many Americans have for smoking heavily, which is that smoking is a fairly sure, fairly honorable form of suicide.
The only thing I ever learned was that some people are lucky and other people aren’t and not even a graduate of the Harvard Business School can say why.
The library is full of stories of supposed triumphs, which makes me very suspicious of it. It’s misleading for people to read about great successes, since even for middle-class and upper-class white people, in my experience, failure is the norm.
The late twentieth century will go down in history, I’m sure, as an era of pharmaceutical buffoonery.
The last thing I ever wanted was to be alive when the three most powerful people on the whole planet would be named Bush, Dick and Colon.
