Round and round we spin, with feet of lead and wings of tin.

Our awareness is all that is alive and maybe sacred in any of us. Everything else about us is dead machinery.

The prostitutes worked for a pimp now. He was splendid and cruel. He was a god to them. He took their free will away from them, which was perfectly all right. They didn't want it anyway. It was as though they had surrendered themselves to Jesus, for instance, so they could live unselfishly and trustingly-except that they had surrendered to a pimp instead.

The library is full of stories of supposed triumphs which makes me very suspicious of it. It's misleading for people to read about great successes, since even for middle-class and upper-class white people, in my experience, failure is the norm.

Round and round we spin, with feet of lead and wings of tin.

There is nothing like death to say what is always such an artificial thing to say: The End.

Just because something feels better than anything else, that doesn't mean it's good for you.