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

I realized these were all the snapshots which our children would look at someday with wonder, thinking their parents had lived smooth, well-ordered lives and got up in the morning to walk proudly on the sidewalks of life, never dreaming the raggedy madness and riot of our actual lives, our actual night, the hell of it, the senseless emptiness.

I came to a point where I needed solitude and just stop the machine of ‘thinking’ and ‘enjoying’ what they call ‘living’, I just wanted to lie in the grass and look at the clouds.

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

Ah, it was a fine night, a warm night, a wine-drinking night, a moony night, and a night to hug your girl and talk and spit and be heavengoing.

all I wanted to do was sneak out into the night and disappear somewhere, and go and find out what everybody was doing all over the country.

Something great is about to happen to me: I'm about to love somebody very much.