Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind.

Never dreaming, was I, poor Jack Duluoz, that the soul is dead. That from Heaven grace descends . . . No Doctor Pisspot Poorpail to tell me; no example inside my first and only skin. That love is the heritage, and cousin to death. That the only love can only be the first love, the only death the last, the only life within, and the only word . . . choked forever.

The more ups and downs, the more joy I feel. The greater the fear, the greater the happiness I feel.

Don't use the phone. People are never ready to answer it. Use poetry.

The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved.

I was surprised, as always, be how easy the act of leaving was, and how good it felt. The world was suddenly rich with possibility.

I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.