I want story, wit, music, wryness, color, and a sense of reality in what I read, and I try to get it in what I write.

I am not suited to the role of going around selling the life-can-be-beautiful idea. It can be, indeed. But you don't buy the concept from your friendly door-to-door lecture salesman.

I am wary of the whole dreary deadening structured mess that we have built into such a glittering top-heavy structure that there is nothing left to see but the glitter, and the brute routines of maintaining it.

A man with a credit card is in hock to his own image of himself.

Being an adult means accepting those situations where no action is possible.

All thinking is done with the glands. Logic is added later to tidy things up.

Night and gin and music-the right setting for peeling off the thin clinging layers of bullshit and finding one's way down closer to the essential self.