Sweet life continues in the breeze, in the golden fields.

I took a straight picture that made me look like a thirty-year-old Italian who'd kill anybody who said something against his mother.

Lying mouth to mouth, kiss to kiss in the pillow dark, loin to loin in unbelievable surrendering sweetness so distant from all our mental fearful abstractions it makes you wonder why men have termed God antisexual somehow (p. 148)

Paris is a woman but London is an independent man puffing his pipe in a pub.

"What do you want out of life?" I asked, and I used to ask that all the time of girls.

LA is the loneliest and most brutal of American cities; NY gets god-awful cold in the winter but there's a feeling of wacky comradeship somewhere in some streets. LA is a jungle.

Parade my trouble in front of you guys? Make you realize that my heart is broken . . . that as long as I live I'll have chains dragging me down to the oceans of sad tears that my feet are wet in already.