There is only one place to write and that is alone at a typewriter. The writer who has to go into the streets is a writer who does not know the streets. . . when you leave your typewriter you leave your machine gun and the rats come pouring through.

How are his poems?" "He's not as good as he thinks he is, but then most of us feel that way.

You just rebel against everything. How are you going to survive? I don't know. I'm already tired.

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.

They were beautiful nothings

the sea is made of blood

I just want a hot cup of coffee,black,and I don’t want to hear about your troubles.