I find in myself a need to get very away.

I believe I want adult sanity, which seems to me the only unalloyed form of heroism available today.

I cannot say what color Lenore Beadsman’s eyes are; I cannot look at them; they are the sun to me.

I'm very bright, but I'm terrified of sounding like someone who thinks he's very bright-because those people are assholes.

Nuclear weapons and TV have simply intensified the consequences of our tendencies, upped the stakes.

What if sometimes there is no choice about what to love? What if the temple comes to Mohammed? What if you just love? without deciding? You just do: you see her and in that instant are lost to sober account-keeping and cannot choose but to love?

It now lately sometimes seemed a black miracle to me that people could actually care deeply about a subject or pursuit, and could go on caring this way for years on end. Could dedicate their entire lives to it. It seemed admirable and at the same time pathetic. We are all dying to give our lives away to something, maybe.