I like to be somewhere at least where you can see a few girls around once in a while, even if they're only scratching their arms or blowing their noses or even just giggling or something.

A confessional passage has probably never been written that didn't stink a little bit of the writer's pride in having given up his pride.

Always, always, always referring every goddam thing that happens right back to our lousy little egos.

You think of the book you'd most like to be reading, and then you sit down and shamelessly write it.

I suspect that money is a far greater distraction for the artist than hunger.

But guilt is guilt. It doesn't go away. It can't be nullified. It can't even be fully understood, I'm certain - it's roots run too deep into private and long-standing karma. About the only thing that saves my neck when I get to feeling this way is that guilt is an imperfect form of knowledge. Just because it isn't perfect doesn't mean that it can't be used. The hard thing to do is to put it to practical use, before it gets around to paralyzing you.

They didn't act like people and they didn't act like actors. It's hard to explain. They acted more like they knew they were celebrities and all. I mean they were good, but they were too good.