One more drink and you're dead. This is no way to talk to a suicide head.

So, that’s what they wanted: lies. Beautiful lies. That’s what they needed. People were fools. It was going to be easy for me.

You have my soul and I have your money

Not everybody thought they could be a dentist or an automobile mechanic but everybody knew they could be a writer.

Trouble and pain were what kept a man alive. Or trying to avoid trouble and pain. It was a full time job.

I should think that many of our poets, the honest ones, will confess to having no manifesto. It is a painful confession but the art of poetry carries its own powers without having to break them down into critical listings. I do not mean that poetry should be raffish and irresponsible clown tossing off words into the void. But the very feeling of a good poem carries its own reason for being... 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.

The Artist," an ancient sage had once said, "is always sitting on the doorsteps of the rich.