I'm sick of just liking people. I wish to God I could meet somebody I could respect.
Get your dirty stinking moron knees off my chest.
I don't exactly know what I mean by that, but I mean 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.
Maybe there's a trapdoor under my chair, and I'll just disappear.
It is my rather subversive opinion that a writer's feelings of anonymity-obscurity are the second most valuable property on loan to him during his working years.