The Recognition of Potential—

     This ranks among the most profound marks of difference between Man and Woman. For Woman is either blind and deaf to the potential in a man, or else willfully oblivious: she wants an older man, one who is already accomplished, one who has proven his ability to succeed through—success!

     Man, on the other hand, knows the value of a woman only through her potential: every "deed" is a blemish on her virtue, so to speak. He wants a younger woman, one to whom the world is fresh and as yet unexperienced, one who has not yet become a credit to her name and so won't mind—taking his!

The Tyranny of Happiness—

     From what terrible necessity do we derive the imperative that happiness shall stand as our highest goal? Even the martyr, who undoubtedly suffers for his martyrdom, cherishes the notion that his deed will contribute to the collective happiness of those he has left behind; for, has there ever been a martyr who sacrificed himself solely for the benefit of future martyrs?—No, the redemption in his deed is parasitic on the happiness of the others—the martyr is beholden to the grateful. But they know, we know, that happiness is, in the end, a reaffirmation of our animal heritage, and are thus doubly enslaved: first to our gratitude, and then to our guilt.

Back to the Orphanage—

     Mother Nature! Father Time! You are such callous step-parents. All of those lullabies you sang to us sounded so sincere. But even as we were still settling into this newfound security, you were already conspiring to replace us.

     What fools we have been, blind to the all the signs and symptoms, to the reality that Nature's maw stands ready to consume her own excess.

Sometimes we speak with a friend as a friend: when others are around we whisper in hushed tones, or else communicate only through glances. Other times we speak to him as a proxy for the whole world: we use grandiose gestures and express ourselves loudly enough that anyone who could overhear us does—eh, my friend?

Nostalgia—

     The cold candor of childhood—you fear you'll never recover it, never recover from it. For you have never taken another's perspective; each and every time one was forced upon you. And now, softened by a cruel awareness, you long for those days of indifference and oblivion.