But an artist, he realized. Or rather so-called artist. Bohemian. That's closer to it. The artistic life without the talent.

In this dark world where he now dwelt, ugly things and surprising things and once in a long while a tiny wondrous thing spilled out at him constantly; he could count on nothing.

I like her; I could watch her the rest of my life. She has breasts that smile.

I'm not much but I'm all I have.

Madness has its own dynamism. It just goes on.

In a civil war… every side is wrong. It’s hopeless to try to untangle it. Everyone is a victim.

In a one-party system there is always a landslide.