It’s obvious; I never write anything serious. The things I’ve written are only ever frivolous. And to think that I so often scorn frivolousness. The things I write are frivolous because they are always about myself; what I do, what I think, the people I meet, my impressions of them, my dreams, my ideas, my sorrows, my pitiless circumstance, my loves, my failures, my regrets, in a word, my world. And don’t people just hate reading about other people. There was an afternoon where I was out for lunch for with a colleague, and for nearly the entire duration of our lunch, she was talking about herself; about how things are in her country, what she did in school, what she’s about to do, what kind of work she’s interested in, what her siblings are doing, what her this, what her that; everything she could curve back into her own world. I grew terribly bored within the first 10 minutes, and thereafter only half-listened and nodded whenever I sensed a pause and an expectation of acknowledgement.