There's a crystallization that goes on in a poem which the young man can bring off, but which the middle-aged man can't.

Women, fire in their crotch, won't burn out, begin by fighting off pricks, end by going wild hunting for one that still works.

Nothing feels worse than other people's good times.

Those running tights the young women wear now, so they look like spacewomen, raspberry red and electric green so tight they show every muscle right into the crack between the buttocks, what is the point of them? Display. Young animals need to display.

The literary scene is a kind of Medusa’s raft, small and sinking, and one’s instinct when a newcomer tries to clamber aboard is to step on his fingers.

Man is a means for turning things into spirit and turning spirit into things.

Living is a compromise, between doing what you want and doing what other people want.