One of the advantages of being dead, I guess, is that somebody else can edit all this.

I went to the Democratic Convention as a journalist, and returned a cold-blooded revolutionary.

Good mescaline comes on slow. The first hour is all waiting, then about halfway through the second hour you start cursing the creep who burned you, because nothing is happening...and then ZANG!

All the blood is drained out of democracy - it dies - when only half the population votes.

Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming "Wow! What a Ride!

A man can live on his wits and his balls for only so long.

If you work in either journalism or politics... you will be flogged for being right and flogged for being wrong, and it hurts both ways-but it doesn't hurt as much when you're right.