And I can't be running back and fourth forever between grief and high delight.

In the first place, you’re way off when you start railing at things and people instead of at yourself.

Boy, when you're dead, they really fix you up. I hope to hell when I do die somebody has sense enough to just dump me in the river or something. Anything except sticking me in a goddam cemetery. People coming and putting a bunch of flowers on your stomach on Sunday, and all that crap. Who wants flowers when you're dead?

If there's one thing I hate, it's the movies. Don't even mention them to me.

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

People never think anything is anything really. I'm getting goddam sick of it.

Against my better judgment I feel certain that somewhere very near here—the first house down the road, maybe—there's a good poet dying, but also somewhere very near here somebody's having a hilarious pint of pus taken from her lovely young body, and I can't be running back and forth forever between grief and high delight.