I don't have any home. Everyone I grew up with, my family, are all dead. So I feel kind of like a ghost. I'm more interested in the past.

The world is telling you through The New York Times and The New York Review of Books "You must shut up. You must never appear again. Because you are not relevant to us." So you have to fight their attempt to destroy you, fight to continue feeling.

I am against all machines. It's no wonder that so many Americans go on dope when they have no other cultural stimulus than a television.

Feeling is taboo, especially in New York. I read in some little magazine the other day that The New Yorker and The New York Times were sclerotic, meaning, "completely turned to rock." The critics here are that way.

There are no manners left in America at all, because all you're doing is kicking the person next to you so that you can consume more, see more, and get more.

Almost everything official in America is a huge fraud.

The worse the author, the more he is known.