I see men assassinated around me every day. I walk through rooms of the dead, streets of the dead, cities of the dead; men without eyes, men without voices; men with manufactured feelings and standard reactions; men with newspaper brains, television souls and high school ideas.

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

I could never accept life as it was, I could never gobble down all its poisons bu there were parts, tenuous magic parts open for the asking.

Each man's hell is in a different place: mine is just up and behind my ruined face.

My heart is a thousand years old. I am not like other people.

Where did all the women come from? The supply was endless. Each one of them was individual, different. Their pussies were different, their kisses were different, their breasts were different, but no man could drink them all, there were too many of them, crossing their legs, driving men mad. What a feast!

That’s when I first learned that it wasn’t enough to just do your job, you had to have an interest in it, even a passion for it.