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.

my greatest problem was stamps, envelopes, paper and wine, with the world on the edge of World War II.

the writing of some men is like a vast bridge that carries you over the many things that claw and tear. The Wine of Forever

The whole LSD, STP, marijuana, heroin, hashish, prescription cough medicine crowd suffers from the "Watchtower" itch: you gotta be with us, man, or you're out, you're dead. This pitch is a continual and seeming MUST with those who use the stuff. It's no wonder they keep getting busted.

I had no interests. I had no interest in anything. I had no idea how I was going to escape. At least the others had some taste for life. They seemed to understand something that I didn’t understand. Maybe I was lacking. It was possible. I often felt inferior. I just wanted to get away from them. But there was no place to go. Suicide? Jesus Christ, just more work. I felt like sleeping for five years but they wouldn’t let me.

I guess for me Hemingway is a lot like it is for others: he goes down well when we are young.

True revolution comes from true revulsion; when things get bad enough the kitten will kill the lion.