The whole mad swirl of everything that was to come began then.

Genius gives birth, talent delivers. What Rembrandt or Van Gogh saw in the night can never be seen again. Born writers of the future are amazed already at what they're seeing now, what we'll all see in time for the first time, and then see imitated many times by made writers.

The silence was an intense roar.

Bein Crazy is the least of my worries.

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.

I wasn't scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost.

How clear the realization one is going mad -- the mind has a silence, nothing happens in the physique, urine gathers in your loins, your ribs contract.