How can a people who do not mean to understand death hope to understand love, and who will sound the alarm?
There is a terrible sameness to the euphoria of alcohol and the euphoria of metaphor.
Fiction is experimentation; when it ceases to be that, it ceases to be fiction.
I was born into no true class and it was my decision early in life to insinuate myself into the middle class like a spy so that I would have an advantageous position of attack, but I seem now and then to have forgotten my mission, and to have taken my disguises too seriously.
Only the opium eater truly understands the pain of death.
How can we describe the most exalted experience of our physical lives [sex], as if-jack, wrench, hubcap, and nuts-we were describing the changing of a flat tire?