It seemed like a matter of minutes when we began rolling in the foothills before Oakland and suddenly reached a height and saw stretched out ahead of us the fabulous white city of San Francisco on her eleven mystic hills with the blue Pacific and its advancing wall of potato-patch fog beyond, and smoke and goldenness in the late afternoon of time.

I suddenly discovered the delight of rebellion.

Between incomprehensible and incoherent sits the madhouse. I am not in the madhouse.

Books, shmooks, this sickness has got me wishing if I can ever get out of this I'll gladly become a millworker and shut my big mouth.

Believe in the holy contour of life.

The beauty of things must be that they end.

and the stars were icicles of mockery