And when the fog's over and the stars and the moon come out at night it'll be a beautiful sight.

Things are so hard to figure out when you live from day to day in this feverish and silly world.

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.

I'm Catholic and I can't commit suicide, but I plan to drink myself to death.

There was nothing to talk about anymore. The only thing to do was go.

It's pretty amazing to see a guy, while steering at the wheel, suddenly raise his little 300 dollar German camera with one hand and snap something that's on the move in front of him, and through an unwashed windshield at that. (On the road with Robert Frank, 1958)

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