Bright was the light of my last martini on my moral horizon

You're gambling with something vital. Most writers get smashed egos.

I guess all that's left is to love the fire.

The sense of a long last night over civilization is back again.

Writing can wreck your body. You sit there on the chair hour after hour and sweat your guts out to get a few words.

People who are greedy have extraordinary capacities for waste-they must, they take in too much.

Dying can't be all that difficult-up to now everyone has managed to do it.