You don't realize what a strain it is on the nerves to write or think-of-writing all day long, and to sleep full of nervous dreams, and to wake up not knowing who one is: this all stems from anxiety about finishing the book, about time 'growing short', etc., and the perpetual strain of invention.

and nobody knows what’s going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old

LA is the loneliest and most brutal of American cities; NY gets god-awful cold in the winter but there's a feeling of wacky comradeship somewhere in some streets. LA is a jungle.

The closer you get to real matter, rock air fire and wood, boy, the more spiritual the world is.

We lay on our backs looking at the ceiling and wondering what God had wrought when he made life so sad and disinclined.

You don't realize what a strain it is on the nerves to write or think-of-writing all day long, and to sleep full of nervous dreams, and to wake up not knowing who one is: this all stems from anxiety about finishing the book, about time 'growing short', etc., and the perpetual strain of invention.

I have fallen in love with you, God. Take care of us all, one way or the other.