And now, dear reader, prepare yourself for the most impure tale ever told - a blog the likes of which you are not likely to encounter either among the ancients or among the moderns. All pleasure-taking which is sanctioned by manners or by the foolish god of yours will be excluded; what is left will be naught but infamy.
«All my life, I have been the sort of person in whom people confide. And all my life I have been flattered by this role- grateful for the frisson of importance that comes with receiving privileged information. In recent years, however, I have noticed that my gratification is becoming diluted by a certain weary indignation. Why, I find myself silently asking my confiders, are you telling me? Of course, I know why, really. They tell me because they regard me as safe. All of them, they make their disclosures to me in the same spirit that they might tell a castrato or a priest -with the sense that I am so outside the loop, so remote from the doings of the great world, as to be defused of any possible threat. The number of secrets I receive is in inverse proportion to the number of secrets anyone expects me to have of my own. And this is the real source of my dismay. Being told secrets is not -never has been- a sign that I belong or that I matter. It is quite the opposite: confirmation of my irrelevance.»