He asked, "What makes a man a writer?" "Well," I said, "it's simple. You either get it down on paper, or jump off a bridge.

I had decided against religion a couple of years back. If it were true, it made fools out of people, or it drew fools. And if it weren't true, the fools were all the more foolish. What I need is a good doctor, I thought. You either lived or died.

the masses are everywhere they know how to do things: they have sane and deadly angers for sane and deadly things.

Let it die. Let there be a new beginning. It’s awful. Goodnight.

Sundays kill more people than bombs.

and even the trees we walked under seemed less than trees and more like everything else.

The blankets had fallen off and I stared down at her white back, the shoulder blades sticking out as if they wanted to grow into wings, poke through that skin. Little blades. She was helpless.