History isn’t actually written by the victors. It’s merely related by the victors to their timid subordinates, who then perform the tedious work of rendering it into print.
Embarrassing, the degree to which my mood is affected by the weather — but useful, too, as a reminder that I continue to be infested with banality.
Does God have perfect knowledge of my future? The question is immense — immense and irrelevant. I, myself, have perfect knowledge of my future — a lot like the present, it is, just with greater quantities of fatigue.
I don’t require the existence of a Stasi or KGB to surreptitiously monitor my behavior: I spy on myself sufficiently well.
My wife is disgusted by a grey sweatshirt I’ve chosen to wear. “You look like a frightening street person,” she says and leaves the room.
Disgusted by the sweatshirt, I say, although probably more accurate to say with my inclination to wear it — and with herself, finally, for having lacked the necessary rigor while choosing a spouse.
- One who, containing an excess of shit, is compelled to discharge some quantity of it by mouth.
- One who traffics in human weakness — his own, first and foremost.
- A sort of abusive magician who, having pulled a rabbit from his hat, denounces the entire rabbit species and their perverted tastes in hiding.