There is a marvelous peace in not publishing. It's peaceful. Still. Publishing is a terrible invasion of my privacy. I like to write. I live to write. But I write just for myself and my own pleasure. I don't necessarily intend to publish posthumously, but I do like to write for myself. I pay for this kind of attitude. I'm known as a strange, aloof kind of man. But all I'm doing is trying to protect myself and my work.

Get your dirty stinking moron knees off my chest.

My god, there's absolutely nothing tenth-rate about you, and yet you're up to your neck at this minute in tenth-rate thinking.

I wouldn't exactly describe her as strictly beautiful. She knocked me out, though.

I can’t explain what I mean. And even if I could, I’m not sure I’d feel like it.

I felt so lonesome, all of a sudden. I almost wished I was dead.

Always, always, always referring every goddam thing that happens right back to our lousy little egos.