Added to the moral solitude of the murderer comes the solitude of the artist, which can acknowledge no authority, save that of another artist.

We know that their adventures are childish. They themselves are fools. They are ready to kill or be killed over a card-game in which an opponent - or they themselves - was cheating. Yet, thanks to such fellows, tragedies are possible.

The pimp has a grin, never a smile.

Repudiating the virtues of your world, criminals hopelessly agree to organize a forbidden universe. They agree to live in it. The air there is nauseating. They can breathe it.

I could not take lightly the idea that people made love without me.

She was happy, and perfectly in line with the tradition of those women they used to call "ruined," "fallen," feckless, bitches in heat, ravished dolls, sweet sluts, instant princesses, hot numbers, great lays, succulent morsels, everybody's darlings . . .

The main object of a revolution is the liberation of man... not the interpretation and application of some transcendental ideology.