the impossibility of being human all too human this breathing in and out out and in these punks these cowards these champions these mad dogs of glory moving this little bit of light toward us impossibly.

When a writer is swayed with his fame and his fortune, you can float him down the river with the turds.

The blankets had fallen off and I stared down at her white back, the shoulder blades sticking out as if they wanted to grow into wings, poke through that skin. Little blades. She was helpless.

I grow tired of 18th century moralities in a 20th century space-atomic age

I still have a little whiskey left and therefore a chance.

Don't ever write a novel unless it hurts like a hot turd coming out.

I hope that death contains less than this.