The streets were full of insane & dull people. Most of them lived in nice houses and didn't seem to work, and you wondered how they did it.

I had no feeling for the things so many others needed.

Love is all right for those who can handle the psychic overload. It's like trying to carry a full garbage can on your back over a rushing river of piss.

In a more universal sense, we only get one thing. You know...a head stone if we're lucky; if not, green grass.

The empty, the angry, the lonely, the tricked, we are all museums of fear.

I seldom know what I'm going to write when I sit down. There isn't much agony and sweat of the human spirit involved in doing it. The writing's easy, it's the living that is sometimes difficult.

Almost everybody is born a genius and buried an idiot.