I had gone to no such place but to the smoke of cafes and nights when the room whirled and you needed to look at the wall to make it stop, nights in bed, drunk, when you knew that that was all there was, and the strange excitement of waking and not knowing who it was with you, and the world all unreal in the dark and so exciting that you must resume again unknowing and not caring in the night, sure that this was all and all and all and not caring.

As in no other form of lute or combat, the conditions are such; the winner takes nothing, neither his ease, nor his pleasure, nor any notion of glory, nor if he wins far enough, will he find anything within himself.

In war, one cannot say what one feels.

The writer's job is not to judge, but to seek to understand.

How did we go bankrupt? Two ways. Slowly, and then all of a sudden.

You write a book like that you're fond of over the years, then you see that happen to it, it's like pissing in your father's beer.

The real reason for not committing suicide is because you always know how swell life gets again after the hell is over.