I grew up when people seemed actually to be hurting themselves for their art. Of course, some of it was phony.

Where is the angry machine of all of us? Why is God such a blurred magician? Why are you begging for your life if you believe those things? Prove to me that you’re better than the rabbits we ate last night.

What a bog and labyrinth the human essence is... We are all overbrained and overemotioned.

You've got to lie to stay halfway interested in yourself.

My best stories come out of nowhere, with no concern for form at all.

The first two drinks were always wonderfully liberating. You think better. You're braver, and you'll say anything. If you could just hang in there with two or three, it'd be beautiful. The trouble was I couldn't.

When you're not involved, other people's unhappiness seems to be about the funniest damn thing on earth because you think you can solve it, that you are God, that you are above this, and that their unhappiness is just such useless toil and agony. If it's you, it ceases to be a comedy.