Each person is only given so many evenings and each wasted evening is a gross violation against the natural course of your only life.

Bad luck for the young poet would be a rich father, an early marriage, an early success or the ability to do anything well.

I like women who haven’t lived with too many men. I don’t expect virginity but I simply prefer women who haven’t been rubbed raw by experience. There is a quality about women who choose men sparingly; it appears in their walk in their eyes in their laughter and in their gentle hearts. Women who have had too many men seem to choose the next one out of revenge rather than with feeling. When you play the field selfishly everything works against you: one can’t insist on love or demand affection. You’re finally left with whatever you have been willing to give which often is: nothing.

I drive around the streets an inch away from weeping, ashamed of my sentimentality and possible love.

Love came hard and very seldom. When it did it was usually for the wrong reasons.

I can't blame her. but wonder why she's here with me? where are the other guys? how can you be lucky? having someone the others have abandoned?

They never pay the slaves enough so they can get free, just enough so they can stay alive and come back to work.