As a recluse I couldn't bear traffic. It had nothing to do with jealousy, I simply disliked people, crowds, anywhere, except at my readings. People diminished me, they sucked me dry.

The human body is mostly blood and mystery and sadness.

Finally there is nothing here for death to take away.

2 p.m. beer nothing matters but flopping on a mattress with cheap dreams and a beer as the leaves die and the horses die and the landladies stare in the halls; brisk the music of pulled shades, a last man's cave in an eternity of swarm and explosion; nothing but the dripping sink, the empty bottle, euphoria, youth fenced in, stabbed and shaven, taught words propped up to die.

When you drank the world was still out there, but for the moment it didn’t have you by the throat.

Complaint is often the result of an insufficient ability to live within the obvious restrictions of this god damned cage.

Do some living and get yourself a typewriter.