I am just embarking on what I know will be a remarkable book.
We have a name for your disease. We call it a hyper-aesthetic one. You have been encouraged to over-indulge yourself in literature; and have inflamed your organs of fancy. 
If the first few weeks of 2010 are any indicator, this is going to be a good year for reading!
I like my sex the way I play basketball: one on one and with as little dribbling as possible.
You know friends, there are times when I just stay silent, and there are other times when I have to declare someone Idiot of the Year!
A great writer is, so to speak, a second government in his country. And for that reason, no regime has ever loved great writers, only minor ones.
There is the same difference in a person before and after he is in love as between an unlighted lamp and one that is burning. The lamp was there and was a good lamp, but now it is shedding light, too, and that is its real function.
A noted psychiatrist was a guest speaker at an academic function where Nancy Pelosi happened to appear.
It has come to my attention that what I think of as sarcasm [maybe that's even the wrong word]... maybe what I really mean is "joking-around" or something... but, in any case, several people have mentioned to me that some of the things I write on my blog from time to time are not only confusing, but can be construed as though I am lying. [about myself].
Well, I am not even going to wait until I am done this book to tell you all that you should frigging GET IT and READ IT.
As some of the more astute among you may already know, I used to be a drummer in a rock band.
It was only many years after, when my grandfather had departed from this world and I was a grown man, I finally came to realize that my grandmother, after all, also believed in dreams. There could have been no other reason why, sitting one evening at the door of her cottage where she now lived alone, staring at the biggest and smallest stars overhead, she said these words: "The world is so beautiful and it is such a pity that I have to die". She didn't say she was afraid of dying, but that it was a pity to die, as if her hard life of unrelenting work was, in that almost final moment, receiving the grace of a supreme and last farewell, the consolation of beauty revealed. She was sitting at the door of a house like none other I can imagine in all the world, because in it lived people who could sleep with piglets as if they were their own children, people who were sorry to leave life just because the world was beautiful; and this Jerónimo, my grandfather, swineherd and story-teller, feeling death about to arrive and take him, went and said goodbye to the trees in the yard, one by one, embracing them and crying because he knew he wouldn't see them again.
Well, by now we've all heard about the guy wearing his lovely explosive diaper there on Christmas Day.
Romantic love is mental illness. But it's a pleasurable one. It's a drug. It distorts reality, and that's the point of it. It would be impossible to fall in love with someone that you really saw.
There are many people who reach their conclusions about life like schoolboys; they cheat their masters by copying the answer out of a book without having worked out the sum for themselves.
How's the New Year going, folks?
I read 48 books last year.
