It is not my fault that certain so-called bohemian elements have found in my writings something to hang their peculiar beatnik theories on.

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

Who can leap the world's ties and sit with me among white clouds?

Cats yawn because they realize that there's nothing to do.

What's in store for me in the direction I don't take?

I rather like the idea of having all my hours to myself: eating a Fudge Sundae, watching a movie, sleeping on my couch, singing in the bathroom, studying the woods, kidding around with a girl, playing cards lazily - all kinds of stuff that American brands 'shiftless.'

What is he aching to do? What are we all aching to do? What do we want?” She didn’t know. She yawned. She was sleepy. It was too much. Nobody could tell. Nobody would ever tell. It was all over. She was eighteen and most lovely, and lost.