Writer's Diary
8/8/25
Here I am, a childless man, doing military-style workouts in the fitness room in the basement of his building—unable to do anything other than work constantly, admiring solitude while unable to achieve it; haughty and impetuous, going out every night, living the dream of a twenty-two-year-old while approaching forty. “But you look so young,” they say; “but I feel so old,” I think.
Castration is the order of the day—emotional, spiritual, physical castration. Mind numb, heart numb, dick numb.
But—I don’t feel that way myself. I don’t feel castrated at all, yet I suspect I’d be better liked and would fit in more easily if I were.
I’m reading Dr. Johnson tonight before bed: “But though learning may be conferred by solitude, its application must be attained by general converse. He has learned to know purpose that is not able to teach, and he will always teach unsuccessfully who cannot recommend his sentiments by his diction or address.”
When you’re young, it’s time to read to store up wisdom for the burst of activity and entrepreneurship that will be required at the end of youth. When you’re old, you need to read to restore yourself, to replenish the wisdom spent in the flurry of creating a life. Reading is something you do in preparation for both living and dying.
If you know yourself well, then you can become the measure of yourself and judge others by understanding how they treat you.
I try to remain dialectical at all times, pushing far in one direction only to realize how wrong I am, then tacking back in the other direction—only to realize the same thing—gaining strength and muscle during the journey back and forth.
Sex is to the smartphone age what friendship was to the Enlightenment coffeehouse: the ultimate good that justifies the pains of life itself.