That was all a man needed: hope. It was lack of hope that discouraged a man.

great writers are indecent people they live unfairly saving the best part for paper. good human beings save the world so that bastards like me can keep creating art, become immortal. if you read this after I am dead it means I made it.

my mother, poor fish, wanting to be happy, beaten two or three times a week, telling me to be happy: "Henry, smile! why don't you ever smile?" and then she would smile, to show me how, and it was the saddest smile I ever saw

I didn't feel that way about it. I had been playing with death for some time. I can't say we were the best of friends but we were well acquainted.

I often carry things to read so that I will not have to look at the people.

It’s nice enough to make a man weep, but I don’t weep, do you?

people are not good to each other. perhaps if they were our deaths would not be so sad.