Genre Fiction: grand visual spectacles produced to save bookstoregoers the misery of viewing the awful word versions.

Love is the escape plan from our scheduled existences.

Use condoms; it’s wise not to gamble with your children’s future.

The lampshade on my head is for my bright ideas. I won’t be able to convey them until Monday, when my curtain gets out of the dry cleaners.

A man wrapped up in himself always suffocates. But his loved ones will forever hold in their hearts the memory of that Christmas.

Like Saturn at a family reunion, we ravenously devour children, parents, cousins – all which threatens the integrity of the self, which renders it less than completely unique. The babysitter, too, must go: even the chance of a divulged memory must be snuffed out.

Love your wife, your servant and your enemy equally, and file her credit card bills under the ‘enemy’ folder.

If I weren’t too proud, I’d boast of my exaggerated opinion of myself.

Love leads people to become lost in their own feelings and ignore the world, so it’s no surprise their love for the world goes unrequited.

Bachelorhood: all the fun of married life and more prosperity, leaving lots of descendants to boast of their father’s memory to their fellow inmates.