Pretty girls make graves

I'm writing this book because we're all going to die.

Eager for bread and love.

The happiness consists in realizing that it is all a great strange dream.

LA is the loneliest and most brutal of American cities.

A pain stabbed my heart as it did every time I saw a girl I loved who was going the opposite direction in this too-big world.

Sometimes I’d get mad because things didn’t work out so well, I’d spoil a flapjack, or slip in the snowfield while getting water, or one time my shovel went sailing down into the gorge, and I’d be so mad I’d want to bite the mountaintops and would come in the shack and kick the cupboard and hurt my toe. But let the mind beware, though the flesh be bugged, the circumstances of existence are pretty glorious.