The hangover was brutal but he didn't mind. It told him he had been somewhere else, someplace good.

the writing of some men is like a vast bridge that carries you over the many things that claw and tear. The Wine of Forever

Dying should come easy: like a freight train you don't hear when your back is turned.

But my whole life has been a matter of fighting for one simple hour to do what I want to do. There was always something getting in the way of my getting to myself.

As a recluse I couldn't bear traffic. It had nothing to do with jealousy, I simply disliked people, crowds, anywhere, except at my readings. People diminished me, they sucked me dry.

Let it die. Let there be a new beginning. It’s awful. Goodnight.

Some people like what you do, some people hate what you do, but most people simply don't give a damn.