Almost every time somebody gives me a present, it ends up making me sad.

Girls. You never know what they're going to think.

I’m just sick of ego, ego, ego. My own and everybody else’s. I’m sick of everybody that wants to get somewhere, do something distinguished and all, be somebody interesting. It’s disgusting.

Yet a real artist, I've noticed, will survive anything. (Even praise, I happily suspect.)

She's quite intelligent, in my stupidity.

It was a very stupid thing to do, I'll admit, but I hardly didn't even know I was doing it.

Oh, this happiness is strong stuff.