When I write, I aim in my mind not toward New York but toward a vague spot a little to the east of Kansas.

I imagine most of that stuff on the information highway is roadkill anyway.

So much love, too much love, it is our madness, it is rotting us out, exploding us like dandelion polls.

There was clearly great charm and worth in a sport so quaintly perverse in its basic instructions. Hit down to make the ball rise. Swing easy to make it go far. Finish high to make it go straight.

Hoping to fashion a mirror, the lover doth polish the face of his beloved until he produces a skull.

American art in general... takes to surreal exaggerations and metaphors; but its Puritan work ethic has little use for the playful self-indulgence behind Parisian Surrealism.

If you're telling me I'm not mature, that's one thing I don't cry over since as far as I can make out it's the same thing as being dead.