I was amazed by the fact that I was not the only writer living, not the only young man "with a locomotive in his chest, and that's a fact," not the only youth with a million hungers and not one of them appeasable, not the only one who is lonely among multitudes, and does not know why.

Practice kindness all day to everybody and you will realize you're already in heaven now.

My witness is the empty sky.

An awful realization that I have been fooling myself all my life thinking there was a next thing to do to keep the show going and actually I'm just a sick clown and so is everybody else

After all, a homeless man has reason to cry, everything in the world is pointed against him.

Dean's California--wild, sweaty, important, the land of lonely and exiled and eccentric lovers come to forgather like birds, and the land where everybody somehow looked like broken-down, handsome, decadent movie actors.

Suppose we suddenly wake up and see that what we thought to be this and that, ain't this and that at all?