It is so short and jumbled and jangled, Sam, because there is nothing intelligent to say about a massacre. Everybody is supposed to be dead, to never say anything or want anything ever again. Everything is supposed to be very quiet after a massacre, and it always is, except for the birds. And what do the birds say? All there is to say about a massacre, things like "Poo-tee-weet?

I'm not a drug salesman. I'm a writer." "What makes you think a writer isn't a drug salesman?

The most heartbreakingly beautiful girl I ever hope to see

Educate yourself, welcome life's messiness, read Chekhov, avoid becoming an architect at all costs.

Still and all, why bother? Here's my answer. Many people need desperately to receive this message: I feel and think much as you do, care about many of the things you care about, although most people do not care about them. You are not alone.

[Ayres] was our city because we were building it. That's how I felt when I walked around town.

I can see where influential people would like Maharishi better than Jesus. My God, if the Beatles and Mia Farrow went to Jesus, He'd tell them to give all their money away.