I’m not going to bed after all. Somebody around here hath murdered sleep. Good for him.

I was surrounded by phonies...They were coming in the goddam window.

Mothers are all slightly insane.

I live alone (but catless, I'd like everybody to know).

Most stuff that is genuine is better left unsaid.

The cards are stacked (quite properly, I imagine) against all professional aesthetes, and no doubt we all deserve the dark, wordy, academic deaths we all sooner or later die.

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.