They looked as if nothing had ever touched them--all well-mothered, protected, with a soft sheen of contentment. None of them had ever been in jail, or worked hard with their hands, or even gotten a traffic ticket. Skimmed-milk jollies, the whole bunch.

Art is its own excuse, and it's either Art or it's something else. It's either a poem or a piece of cheese.

The male, for all his bravado and exploration, is the loyal one, the one who generally feels love. The female is skilled at betrayal and torture and damnation.

I've found out why men sign their names to their works- not that they created them but more than the others did not.

I wasn't a misanthrope and I wasn't a misogynist but I liked being alone. It felt good to sit alone in a small space and smoke and drink. I had always been good company for myself.

There still might be a place for us somewhere.

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