You don't go on "probably" when love and guns are in hand.

That was the trouble with being a writer, that was the main trouble—leisure time, excessive leisure time. You had to wait around for the buildup until you could write and while you were waiting you went crazy, and while you were going crazy you drank and the more you drank the crazier you got.

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.

Insanity is relative. Who sets the norm?

I suppose like others I have come through fire and sword, love gone wrong, head-on crashes, drunk at sea, and I have listened to the simple sound of water running in tubs and wished to drown

He asked, "What makes a man a writer?" "Well," I said, "it's simple. You either get it down on paper, or jump off a bridge.

Love came hard and very seldom. When it did it was usually for the wrong reasons.