Give me an honest con man any day.

In every school I've gone to, all the athletic bastards stick together.

How long should a man's legs be? Long enough to touch the ground.

Her joke of a name aside, her general unprettiness aside, she was, in terms of permanently memorable, immoderately perceptive, small-area faces, a stunning and final girl.

Phooey, I say, on all white-shoe college boys who edit their campus literary magazines. Give me an honest con man any day.

She worries over the way her love for me comes and goes, appears and disappears. She doubts its reality simply because it isn't as steadily pleasurable as a kitten. God knows it is sad. The human voice conspires to desecrate everything on earth.

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)