Passing in any crowd are secret people whose hidden response to beauty is the desire to tear it into bleeding meat.

Did you ever look into the personalities of male cooks, Army, logging camp, etc.? They're all supposed to be crazy, incomprehensible, contemptible. And angry. The act of feeding adult males seems to have strange personality effects.

Certainly my inner world will never be a peaceful place of bloom; it will have some peace, and occasional riots of bloom, but always a little fight going on too. There is no way I can be peacefully happy in this society and in this skin. I am committed to Uneasy Street. I like it; it is my idea that this street leads to the future, and that I am being true to a way of life which is not here yet, but is more real than what is here.

Anyone who shoots a real gun at you when drunk and angry is simply not husband material, regardless of his taste in literature.

All I can say is that laughter is my music; I would deeply suspect an argument which hadn't laughter.

The only way I can possibly heat my so-called mind up to working temperature is to imagine I'm talking to someone I admire.

You can understand why a system would seek information - but why in hell does it offer information? Why do we strive to be understood? Why is a refusal to accept communication so painful?