Then I grew up, and the beauty of succulent illusions fell away from me.

In a real dark night of the soul, it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day.

It seemed that the only lover she had ever wanted was a lover in a dream.

An author ought to write for the youth of his own generation, the critics of the next, and the schoolmaster of ever afterwards.

Isn't Hollywood a dump-in the human sense of the word. A hideous town, pointed up by the insulting gardens of its rich, full of the human spirit at a new low of debasement.

i'm a slave to my emotions, to my likes, to my hatred of boredom, to most of my desires

Only remember west of the Mississippi it's a little more look, see, act. A little less rationalize, comment, talk.