I grow tired of 18th century moralities in a 20th century space-atomic age

Few beautiful women were willing to indicate in public that they belonged to someone. I had known enough women to realize this. I accepted them for what they were and love came hard and very seldom. When it did it was usually for the wrong reasons. One simply became tired of holding back love and let it go because it needed some place to go. Then, usually, there was trouble.

I could never accept life as it was, I could never gobble down all its poisons bu there were parts, tenuous magic parts open for the asking.

I pretend to understand because I don't want anybody to be hurt

The world had somehow gone too far, and spontaneous kindness could never be so easy.

If you can't write the next line, well, you're dead. The past doesn't matter.

What good are you? What can you do? It has cost me a thousands of dollars to raise you, feed you, clothe you! Suppose I left you here on the street? Then what would you do?" "Catch butterflies