Last year nothing happened The year before nothing happened And the year before that nothing happened.

The weak fear happiness itself.

I want to spend my time with people who don't look to be respected. But such good people won't want to spend their time with me.

What frightened me was the logic of the world; in it lay the foretaste of something incalculably powerful. Its mechanism was incomprehensible, and I could not possibly remain closeted in that windowless, bone-chilling room. Though outside lay the sea of irrationality, it was far more agreeable to swim in its waters until presently I drowned.

A true artist is an ugly man.

Labeled a delinquent. That's the only kind of label I want to be crucified under.

Whenever I was asked what I wanted my first impulse was to answer "Nothing." The thought went through my mind that it didn't make any difference, that nothing was going to make me happy.