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.

We were on the roof of America and all we could do was yell

I suddenly discovered the delight of rebellion.

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

Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea.

I'm going to marry my novels and have little short stories for children.

I promise I shall never give up, and that I'll die yelling and laughing, and that until then I'll rush around this world I insist is holy and pull at everyone's lapel and make them confess to me and to all.