I used to regard it as the purpose of literature to facilitate brief moments of ecstasy. This is one way in which I’ve improved, perhaps. Now I don’t burden anyone, myself included, with reflections on the use of literature.
Periodically, one is compelled to perform some existential calculus — namely, to determine if the trouble of being alive is outweighed by the pleasure that life facilitates. Fortunately, one isn’t also compelled to show his work.
To be struck by lightning or by inspiration? Only the former guarantees some kind of recognition.
My concern isn’t with having squandered free time. It’s with having squandered it correctly.
Regarding the possibility that I’m “destined for mediocrity,” I have no concerns. Indeed, I’ve been mediocre for some time already.
I don’t feel myself till I’ve had a drink. After two drinks, I begin to feel others.
What’s the primary difference between self-help and ethical philosophy as a genre of literature? The former has a marketing budget.