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

Hell is the suffering of being unable to love.

You don't know how to talk to people you don't like. Don't love, really. You can't live in the world with such strong likes and dislikes.

The worst thing that being an artist could do to you would be that it would make you slightly unhappy constantly.

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

I ignored the flashes of lightning all around me. They either had your number on them or they didn't.

The existence of God, the why of life, was all that really only a question of glands?