Live, travel, adventure, bless, and don't be sorry.

We fumed and screamed in our mountain nook, mad drunken Americans in the mighty land. We were on the roof of America and all we could do was yell, I guess - across the night.

And the story of love is a long sad tale ending in graves.

It is not my fault that certain so-called bohemian elements have found in my writings something to hang their peculiar beatnik theories on.

I was a man of the earth, precisely as I had dreamed I would be.

Life was dense, dark, ancient. They watched Dean, serious and insane at his raving wheel, with eyes of hawks. All had their hands outstretched. They had come down from the back mountains and higher places to hold forth their hands for something they thought civilization could offer, and they never dreamed the sadness and the poor broken delusion of it.

Swinging on delicate hinges the autumn leaf almost off the stem.