It is possible to be truly mad and to still exist upon scraps of life.

young or old, good or bad, I don't think anything dies as slow and as hard as a writer.

Trouble and pain were what kept a man alive. Or trying to avoid trouble and pain. It was a full time job.

I had noticed that both in the very poor and very rich extremes of society the mad were often allowed to mingle freely.

I took no pride in my solitude; but I was dependent on it. The darkness of the room was like sunlight to me.

Sexual intercourse is kicking death in the ass while singing.

But then if you lied to a man about his talent just because he was sitting across from you, that was the most unforgivable lie of them all, because that was telling him to go on, to continue which was the worst way for a man without real talent to waste his life, finally. But many people did just that, friends and relatives mostly.