It’s the order of things: each one gets a taste of honey then the knife.

I wish to weep but sorrow is stupid. I wish to believe but belief is a graveyard.

Basically, that's why I wrote: to save my ass, to save my ass from the madhouse, from the streets, from myself.

Joan of Arc had style. Jesus had style.

When I'm drinking around people, I tend to get silly or pugnacious or wild, which can cause problems.

I met a genius on the train today about 6 years old, he sat beside me and as the train ran down along the coast we came to the ocean and then he looked at me and said, it’s not pretty.

Where did all the women come from? The supply was endless. Each one of them was individual, different. Their pussies were different, their kisses were different, their breasts were different, but no man could drink them all, there were too many of them, crossing their legs, driving men mad. What a feast!