The truth of the matter is we don't understand our women; we blame on them and it's all our fault.

It always makes me proud to love the world somehow- hate's so easy compared.

"What do you want out of life?" I asked, and I used to ask that all the time of girls.

I'm writing this book because we're all going to die.

Whither goest thou, America, in thy shiny car in the night?

I realized these were all the snapshots which our children would look at someday with wonder, thinking their parents had lived smooth, well-ordered lives and got up in the morning to walk proudly on the sidewalks of life, never dreaming the raggedy madness and riot of our actual lives, our actual night, the hell of it, the senseless emptiness.

To the children and the innocent it's all the same.