Apropos of Nothing

Rather than live on in the hearts and mind of the public, I prefer to live on in my apartment.

Self-obsession, that treacherous time waster.

In the end this obsession for conformity leads to fascism.

But the arguments we had over free will and monads, while heated, were never as combatative as the ones we had over our marriage. I knew I was in trouble when, in one philosophical discussion, Harlene proved I didn’t exist.

It seems to me the only hope for mankind lies in magic. I have always hated reality, but it’s the only place you can get good chicken wings.

It seemed like I was surrounded by great and wonderful people unstable as uranium.

And I definitely do not want to be on one of those first rockets to outer space, to glimpse Earth from afar and experience weightlessness. The truth is, I hate weightlessness; I am a big fan of gravity and hope it lasts.

being a misanthropist has its saving grace—people can never disappoint you.

Hell is other people’s taste

There are still loonies who think I married my daughter, who think Soon-Yi was my child, who think Mia was my wife, who think I adopted Soon-Yi, who think that Obama wasn’t American. But there was never any trial. I was never charged with anything, as it was clear to the investigators nothing had ever occurred.

They’re all gone. Truffaut, Resnais, Antonioni, De Sica, Kazan. At least Godard is still alive, but he always was a nonconformist

Sophocles said to never have been born may be the greatest boon of all.

So she sells her hair to buy him a watch fob and he sells his watch to buy combs for her hair. The moral I drew was you’re always safer giving cash.

She said, "My whole life, I've never been anyone's top priority." I, who had been the top priority of a large, extended family, the apple of many loving eyes, tried to put myself in Soon-Yi's place and decided to make her my top priority. I decided I would dote on her, wait on her, spoil her, celebrate her, never deny her anything she wanted, and somehow try and make up for the horrific first twenty-two years of her life

In addition to the Yale investigation, the molestation accusation was dismissed by New York State Child Welfare investigators who examined the case scrupulously for fourteen months,

I don’t know what the hell I was thinking; I hated nature, and more than nature I hated being a car owner.

I just didn’t grasp the finer points and once tipped a process server who knocked on my door and handed me a summons.

I met Tati, who advised me to save my money lest I wind up in the old actor’s home, where he had just come from visiting a friend.

One of the saddest things of my life was that I was deprived of the years of raising Dylan and could only dream about showing her Manhattan and the joys of Paris and Rome.

For the written record in this personal document, let me simply say to me, Groucho Marx, W. C. Fields, and Elaine May are indisputably funny, with S.J. Perelman the funniest human of my time on earth.

I had no sense of direction. Once, driving on the Sunrise Highway, Harlene said her parents were away and we could go to her house and use the bedroom. Inflamed by the idea, I made a quick U-turn and knocked over a telephone pole.

I don’t like the idea of awards for artistic things. They’re not created for the purpose of competition; they’re made to fulfill an artistic itch and hopefully entertain. I’m not interested in any group’s pronunciamento as to which film is the best film of the year, or the best book, or the Most Valuable Player.

Like Bertrand Russell, I feel a great sadness for the human race. Unlike Bertrand Russell, I can’t do long division.

Charmingly, she feigns interest in my spate of self-aggrandizing anecdotes in which I come off like Rhett Butler.

Like all mechanical objects, we were instantly archenemies.

I was able to liberate Soon-Yi from a terrible situation and provide her with an opportunity to flower and realize her potential, and she would never have to eat a bar of soap or long for a hug or get hit with a phone again.

He opened my eyes to just how great S. J. Perelman was, superior to all other funny minds, an axiom I hold to this day.

The issue was that my lawyers had accused Dershowitz of saying he could make the whole case go away for seven million dollars. Four lawyers in a room testified he made that offer. He denied it furiously, his mother looking on proudly in the courtroom as her son performed.

There I was at fifteen, on the hook, confronted by Matisse and Chagall, by Nolde, Kirchner, and Schmidt-Rotluff, by Guernica and the frantic wall-sized Jackson Pollock, by the Beckmann triptych and Louise Nevelson’s dark black sculpture.

Dylan was no longer seven but a grown woman of thirty-plus. Mind you, I have not been allowed to see her, speak to her, or correspond with her for twenty-three years. Everything she has heard about me since barely turning seven has been taught to her by Mia.