I lie as truthfully as I can.

Hemingway and Saroyan had the line, the magic of it. The problem was that Hemingway didn't know how to laugh and Saroyan was filled with sugar.

They have no idea that it can be done by a bus driver, a field hand, or a fry cook. They have no idea where it comes from. It comes from pain, damnation and impossibility. The blow to the soul of the gut. It comes from getting burned and seared and slugged. It comes from...new and awful places and the same old places.

I do not like to work and have no trade but i do like to eat, so this is basic, the basic training of slaves to fear.

and I laugh, I can still laugh, who can't laugh when the whole thing is so ridiculous that only the insane, the clowns, the half-wits, the cheaters, the whores, the horseplayers, the bankrobbers, the poets ... are interesting?

my beerdrunk soul is sadder than all the dead christmas trees of the world.

I don't know about other people, but when I wake up in the morning and put my shoes on, I think, Jesus Christ, now what?