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.

It's everybody, I mean. Everything everybody does is so - I don't know - not wrong, or even mean, or even stupid necessarily. But just so tiny and meaningless and - sad-making. And the worst part is, if you go bohemian or something crazy like that, you're conforming just as much only in a different way.

If you weren't around, I'd probably be someplace way the hell off. In the woods or some goddamn place. You're the only reason I'm around, practically.

Grand. There's a word I really hate. It's a phony. I could puke every time I hear it.

They love their reasons for loving us almost as much as they love us, and most of the time more. It's not so good, that way.

An artist's only concern is to shoot for some kind of perfection, and on his own terms, not anyone else's.

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)