Even the stove and the refrigerator looked human, I mean good human - they seemed to have arms and voices and they said, hang around, kid, it's good here, it can be very good here.

I was their bar freak, they needed me to make themselves feel better. just like, at times, I needed that graveyard.

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.

Boring damned people. All over the earth. Propagating more boring damned people. What a horror show. The earth swarmed with them.

I lie as truthfully as I can.

To do a dull thing with style-now that's what I call art.

I sit on the couch watching her arrange her long red hair before my bedroom mirror. she pulls her hair up and piles it on top of her head- she lets her eyes look at my eyes- then she drops her hair and lets it fall down in front of her face. we go to bed and I hold her speechlessly from the back my arm around her neck I touch her wrists and hands feel up to her elbows no further.