you are on the freeway threading through traffic now, moving both towards something and towards nothing at all as you punch the radio on and get Mozart, which is something, and you will somehow get through the slow days and the busy days and the dull days and the hateful days and the rare days, all both so delightful and so disappointing because we are all so alike and so different.

People who believe in politics are like people who believe in God: they are sucking wind through bent straws.

Art is its own excuse, and it's either Art or it's something else. It's either a poem or a piece of cheese.

Her one drink had Cecelia giggling and talking and she was explaining that animals had souls too. Nobody challenged her opinion. It was possible, we knew. What we weren't sure of was if we had any.

Almost everybody is born a genius and buried an idiot.

As we go on with our lives we tend to forget that the jails and the hospitals and the madhouses and the graveyards are packed.

well, i don't know about you but I'm going to try everything! War, women, travel, marriage, children, the works. [...]. I want to know about things, what makes them work!