Hands have not tears to flow.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.

I know we're not saints or virgins or lunatics; we know all the lust and lavatory jokes, and most of the dirty people; we can catch buses and count our change and cross the roads and talk real sentences. But our innocence goes awfully deep, and our discreditable secret is that we don't know anything at all, and our horrid inner secret is that we don't care that we don't.

I hold a beast, an angel, and a madman in me, and my enquiry is as to their working, and my problem is their subjugation and victory, down throw and upheaval, and my effort is their self-expression.

This world is half the devil's and my own, Daft with the drug that's smoking in a girl and curling round the bud that forks her eye.

An alcoholic is someone you don't like who drinks as much as you do.

He who seeks rest finds boredom. He who seeks work finds rest.