Against my better judgment I feel certain that somewhere very near here—the first house down the road, maybe—there's a good poet dying, but also somewhere very near here somebody's having a hilarious pint of pus taken from her lovely young body, and I can't be running back and forth forever between grief and high delight.

I don't suppose a writing man ever really gets rid of his old crocus-yellow neckties. Sooner or later, I think, they show up in his prose, and there isn't a hell of a lot he can do about it.

I can be quite sarcastic when I'm in the mood.

I just never felt so fantastically rocky in my entire life.

She was there, and she was the whole city, and that’s that.

Oh, this happiness is strong stuff.

I have so much I want to tell you, and nowhere to begin.