The crazy ones only laugh when there is no reason to laugh.
I drive around the streets an inch away from weeping, ashamed of my sentimentality and possible love.
I had no Freedom. I had nothing.
Do some living and get yourself a typewriter.
Writing is like going to bed with a beautiful woman and afterwards she gets up, goes to her purse and gives me a handful of money.
There would never be a way for me to live comfortably with people. Maybe I'd become a monk. I'd pretend to believe in God and live in a cubicle, play an organ and stay drunk on wine.