“A book is a postponed suicide,” writes Emil Cioran in The Trouble with Being Born. For the author, yes, perhaps it is. For the reader, however, certain books — like those produced by Dayn Perry, for example — certain books are known only to have ever hastened suicide.
As a guest at a dinner party, I’m among the very harshest of wine critics: if there’s not enough wine, I become critical.
Good wine is better than mediocre wine: that’s obvious. Mediocre wine is much better than no wine at all, however.
At the market yesterday, I wanted to buy the five-liter bottle of wine for €5. My wife, meanwhile, insisted on the 3/4-liter bottle for €6. Her palette is superior to mine, I concede that; her grasp of arithmetic, however, much worse.
“Without music, life would be a mistake—unless, of course, you’re listening to The Barenaked Ladies.”
“Religion is the opium of the masses, and tattoos are the crudely-designed ink stamps on bags of bunk dope copped from a dude named Stinky.”
Humankind has a propensity toward selfishness, to which the correct response is nagging discomfort.
Listen to the Red Sox on the radio with the volume off.