In my next life I want to be a cat. To sleep 20 hours a day and wait to be fed. To sit around licking my ass.

I seldom know what I'm going to write when I sit down. There isn't much agony and sweat of the human spirit involved in doing it. The writing's easy, it's the living that is sometimes difficult.

take a writer away from his typewriter and all you have left is the sickness which started him typing in the beginning

places to hunt places to hide are getting harder to find, and pet canaries and goldfish too, did you notice that?

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

It's not the large things that send a man to the madhouse... no, it's the continuing series of small tragedies... not the death of his love but the shoelace that snaps with no time left.

and the color in my eyes has gone back into the sea.