…He was always high on drugs. I was not a drug man, but in case I wanted to hide from myself for a few days, I knew I could get anything I wanted from him.

People were usually much better in their letters than in reality. They were much like poets in this way.

Women: I liked the colors of their clothing; the way they walked; the cruelty in some faces; now and then the almost pure beauty in another face, totally and enchantingly female. They had it over us: they planned much better and were better organized. While men were watching professional football or drinking beer or bowling, they, the women, were thinking about us, concentrating, studying, deciding - whether to accept us, discard us, exchange us, kill us or whether simply to leave us. In the end it hardly mattered; no matter what they did, we ended up lonely and insane.

It seems I make a lot of mistakes and it seems that I am not allowed any.

I wanted the whole world or nothing.

We are like roses that have never bothered to bloom when we should have bloomed and it is as if the sun has become disgusted with waiting

nothing can save you except writing. it keeps the walls from failing.