I spent my entire youth writing slowly with revisions and endless rehashing speculation and deleting and got so I was writing one sentence a day and the sentence had no FEELING. Goddamn it, FEELING is what I like in art, not CRAFTINESS and the hiding of feelings.

Here I was at the end of America...no more land...and nowhere was nowhere to go but back

I have all the time in the world from life to life to do what is to do, to do what is done, to do the timeless doing.

Life must be rich and full of loving--it's no good otherwise, no good at all, for anyone.

The closer you get to real matter, rock air fire and wood, boy, the more spiritual the world is.

I was having a wonderful time and the whole world opened up before me because I had no dreams.

My whole wretched life swam before my weary eyes, and I realized no matter what you do it's bound to be a waste of time in the end so you might as well go mad.