Our suicidal poets (Plath, Berryman, Lowell, Jarrell, et al.) spent too much of their lives inside rooms and classrooms when they should have been trudging up mountains, slogging through swamps, rowing down rivers. The indoor life is the next best thing to premature burial.

Page, Arizona, Shithead Capital of Coconino County: any town with thirteen churches and only four bars has got an incipient social problem. That town is looking for trouble.

Filling out the form: Race? Human. Religion? Paiute. Occupation? Criminal anarchy. Hobbies? Survival with honor.

Writing on the wall: Will trade three blind crabs for two with no teeth.

Life is unfair. And it's not fair that life is unfair.

A critic is to an author as a fungus to an oak.

To the intelligent man or woman, life appears infinitely mysterious. But the stupid have an answer for every question.