I'd rather hop freights around the country and cook my food out of tin cans over wood fires, than be rich and have a home or work.

The air was soft, the stars so fine, the promise of every cobbled alley so great, that I thought I was in a dream.

Return those shoes to the shoemaker Return this hand to my father This pillow to the pillowmaker Those slippers to the shop. That wainscot to the carpenter, But my mind my tranquil and eternal Mind Return it to whom?

All of life is a foreign country.

Vanity of vanities… all is vanity.’ You kill yourself to get to the grave. Especially you kill yourself to get to the grave before you die; and the name of the grave is ‘success’, the name of that grave is hullabullo boom boom horseshit.

Prison is where you promise yourself the right to live.

Goddamn it, FEELING is what I like in art, not CRAFTINESS and the hiding of feelings.