My trouble is insomnia. If I had always slept properly, I'd never have written a line.

The mind is satisfied with phrased, but not the body, the body is more fastidious, it wants muscles. A body always tells the truth, that's why it's usually depressing and disgusting to look at.

The plain truth, I may as well admit it, is that I've never been really right in the head.

When men can hate without risk, their stupidity is easily convinced, the motives supply themselves.

Life must go on, even if it's no joke...just pretend to believe in the future.

Living, just by itself - what a dirge that is! Life is a classroom and Boredom's the usher, there all the time to spy on you; whatever happens, you've got to look as if you were awfully busy all the time doing something that's terribly exciting - or he'll come along and nibble your brain.

To hell with reality! I want to die in music, not in reason or in prose.