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.

After I go out this door, I may only exist in the minds of all my acquaintances…I may be an orange peel.

He was one of those guys that think they're being a pansy if they don't break around forty of your fingers when they shake hands with you. God I hate that stuff.

There isn't anyone out there who isn't Seymour's Fat Lady.

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

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.

I am always saying "Glad to've met you" to somebody I'm not at all glad I met. If you want to stay alive, you have to say that stuff, though.