In my mind, I'm probably the biggest sex maniac you ever saw.

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.

The existence of God, the why of life, was all that really only a question of glands?

I’m not going to bed after all. Somebody around here hath murdered sleep. Good for him.

His eldest sister (who modestly prefers to be identified here as a Tuckahoe homemaker) has asked me to describe him as looking like 'the blue-eyed Jewish-Irish Mohican scout who died in your arms at the roulette table at Monte Carlo.

If I were a piano player, I'd play it in the goddam closet.

Hell is the suffering of being unable to love.