I've already become a mastodon in print - I don't see a consciousness for my kind of journalism.

It was wonderful, a stunning happy ending to what began as another tragic rock & roll story, as if Bob Dylan had been arrested in Miami for jacking off in a seedy little XXX theater while stroking the spine of a fat young boy.

I was never idle long enough to do much thinking, but I felt somehow that my instincts were right.

Timothy Leary and I kept the same hours. He believed, as I do, that “After midnight, all things are possible.

Of all the men that have run for president in the twentieth century, only George McGovern truly understood what a monument America could be to the human race.

History is hard to know, because of all the hired bullshit, but even without being sure of "history" it seems entirely reasonable to think that every now and then the energy of a whole generation comes to a head in a long fine flash, for reasons that nobody understands at the time--and which never explain, in retrospect, what actually happened.

There is probably some long-standing "rule" among writers, journalists, and other word-mongers that says: "When you start stealing from your own work you're in bad trouble." And it may be true.