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.

I, too, believe in fidelity. But how can I be true to one woman without being false to all the others?

Despair leads to boredom, electronic games, computer hacking, poetry and other bad habits.

Hierarchical institutions are like giant bulldozers -- obedient to the whim of any fool who takes the controls.

A man without a horse is like a man without a weapon: stunted and naked.

The most striking thing about the rich is the gracious democracy of their manners -- and the crude vulgarity of their way of life.

Great art is indefinable but that's all right; it exists anyway.