Four million surplus women. Four million sexually unsatisfied women, artificially creating a host of problems in order to excite or appease their senses. Not being able to embrace one man, they embrace humanity.
I've had a disproportionate share of interaction with jerks.
Nowadays men lead lives of noisy desperation.
There are too many mediocre things in life to deal with. Love shouldn't be one of them. Anything less than extraordinary is a waste of my time.
What if every relationship you've ever been in, is someone slowly figuring out they didn't like you as much as they hoped they would?
I was not satisfied at Rangers, not by a long way. I have hassles there, I had obstacles placed in front of me, and certain things never sat easily on my shoulders, and never will.
My first two novels featured narrators who were aggressively unattached: They couldn't form any sort of genuine relationship. So I had thoroughly explored the geography of loneliness and isolation.
The reason some younger women were willing to go out with my flabby, ageing self was that no one of their own age would put up with them for more than 10 minutes.
The majority of the senior class of Vassar does not desire my company and I must confess, having read specimens of their thought and sentiments, that I do not desire the company of the majority of the senior class of Vassar.
Human attention tends to be focused on the satisfactions relationships are hoped to bring, precisely because somehow they have not been truly satisfactory. And if they do satisfy, the price of this satisfaction has often been found to be unacceptable.
A bachelor's life is a fine breakfast, a flat lunch, and a miserable dinner.
Doing a story about my mundane, waking life, how much I don't like my job, or breaking up with someone, I don't think so. Those stories don't interest me that much as a general thing.
