There've been a lot more people hurt on astro-turf than grass.

It's time to move on to the next step in the psychedelic revolution. We've reached a certain point, but we're not moving any more.

I've found psychedelics to be keys to worlds that have always existed, that have to be talked about.

I sometimes have these spells of compulsive truth. But as Lady Macbeth would say, "The fit is momentary."

Luckily, I remembered something Malcolm Cowley had taught us at Stanford - perhaps the most important lesson a writing class (not a writer, understand, but a class) can ever learn. 'Be gentle with one another's efforts,' he often admonished us. 'Be kind and considerate with your criticism. Always remember that it's just as hard to write a bad book as it is to write a good book.'

We'd just shared the last beer and slung the empty can out the window at a stop sign and were just waiting back to get the feel of the day, swimming in that kind of tasty drowsiness that comes over you after a day of going hard at something you enjoy doing -- half sunburned and half drunk and keeping awake only because you wanted to savor the taste as long as you could.

This world… belongs to the strong, my friend! The ritual of our existence is based on the strong getting stronger by devouring the weak.