Old friend, there are people—young and old—that I like, and people that I do not like. The former are always in short supply. I am turned off by humorless fanaticism, whether it's revolutionary mumbo-jumbo by a young one, or loud lessons from scripture by and old one. We are all comical, touching, slapstick animals, walking on our hind legs, trying to make it a noble journey from womb to tomb, and the people who can't see it all that way bore hell out of me.

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

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

When you see the ugliness behind the tears of another person, it makes you take a closer look at your own.

Integrity is not a conditional word. It doesn't blow in the wind or change with the weather.

As I holed up in the City of Angels, I was also aware of a comforting feeling of anonymity. In the world's biggest third-class city I could pass unnoticed. I spoke the language. I was familiar with the currency. I could drink the water. I could almost breathe the air, late April air, compounded of interesting hydrocarbons.

People cannot endure inexplicable worthlessness