I often stood in front of the mirror alone, wondering how ugly a person could get.

Those who escape hell however never talk about it and nothing much bothers them after that

The Artist," an ancient sage had once said, "is always sitting on the doorsteps of the rich.

I walk into the kitchen, look at the typer down there on the floor. It's a dirty floor. It's a dirty typer that types dirty stories

Now something so sad has hold of us that the breath leaves and we can't even cry.

I'm not the cruel type, but they are, and that's the secret.

LSD, yeah, the big parade – everybody's doin' it now. Take LSD, then you are a poet, an intellectual. What a sick mob. I am building a machine gun in my closet now to take out as many of them as I can before they get me.