It’s history. It’s poetry.

The true poet has no choice of material. The material plainly chooses him, not he it.

This fall I think you're riding for—it's a special kind of fall, a horrible kind. The man falling isn't permitted to feel or hear himself hit bottom. He just keeps falling and falling. The whole arrangement's designed for men who, at some time or other in their lives, were looking for something their own environment couldn't supply them with. Or they thought their own environment couldn't supply them with. So they gave up looking. They gave it up before they ever really even got started.

If there's one thing I hate, it's the movies. Don't even mention them to me.

If I were God, I certainly wouldn't want people to love me sentimentally. It's too unreliable.

And the old horror of being a professional writer, and the usual stench of words that goes with it, is begining to drive me out of my seat. (Buddy)

I just hope that one day - preferably when we’re both blind drunk - we can talk about it.