That was the trouble with being a writer, that was the main trouble—leisure time, excessive leisure time. You had to wait around for the buildup until you could write and while you were waiting you went crazy, and while you were going crazy you drank and the more you drank the crazier you got.

I remember awakening one morning and finding everything smeared with the color of forgotten love.

I think that the world should be full of cats and full of rain, that's all, just cats and rain, rain and cats, very nice, good night.

If there are junk yards in hell, love is the dog that guards the gates.

I was drawn to all the wrong things: I liked to drink, I was lazy, I didn't have a god, politics, ideas, ideals. I was settled into nothingness; a kind of non-being, and I accepted it. I didn't make for an interesting person. I didn't want to be interesting, it was too hard. What I really wanted was only a soft, hazy space to live in, and to be left alone.

All a guy needed was a chance. Somebody was alway controlling who got a chance and who didn't.

If you want to know where God is, ask a drunk.