Her violence frightened me. She always claimed that I was the jealous one, and I was often jealous, but when I saw things working against me I simply became disgusted and withdrew. Lydia was different. She reacted. She was the Head Cheerleader at the Game of Violence.

If you can't write the next line, well, you're dead. The past doesn't matter.

i am going to start selling air in dark orange bags marked: moon-blooms

Never trust a man in a jumpsuit

great books are the ones we need

The worst thing for a writer is to know another writer, and worse than that, to know a number of other writers. Like flies on the same turd.

People were interesting at first. Then later, slowly but surely, all the flaws and madness would manifest themselves. I would become less and less to them; they would mean less and less to me.