from the beginning, through the middle years and up to the end: too bad, too bad, too bad.

Each person is only given so many evenings and each wasted evening is a gross violation against the natural course of your only life.

take a writer away from his typewriter and all you have left is the sickness which started him typing in the beginning

alone with everybody the flesh covers the bone and they put a mind in there and sometimes a soul, and the women break vases against the walls and them men drink too much and nobody finds the one but they keep looking crawling in and out of beds. flesh covers the bone and the flesh searches for more than flesh. there's no chance at all: we are all trapped by a singular fate. nobody ever finds the one. the city dumps fill the junkyards fill the madhouses fill the hospitals fill the graveyards fill nothing else fills.

I’ve had so many knives stuck into me, when they hand me a flower I can’t quite make out what it is. It takes time.

Unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket, unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder, don't do it. unless the sun inside you is burning your gut, don't do it. when it is truly time, and if you have been chosen, it will do it by itself and it will keep on doing it until you die or it dies in you. there is no other way. and there never was.

like the fox I run with the hunted and if I’m not the happiest man on earth I’m surely the luckiest man alive.