He looked about as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of angel food.

I'm all done with hating you. It's all washed out of me. I hate people hard, but I don't hate them very long.

The coffee shop smell was strong enough to build a garage on.

The overall picture, as the boys say, is of a degraded community whose idealism even is largely fake. The pretentiousness, the bogus enthusiasm, the constant drinking, the incessant squabbling over money, the all-pervasive agent, the strutting of the big shots (and their usually utter incompetence to achieve anything they start out to do), the constant fear of losing all this fairy gold and being the nothing they have never ceased to be, the snide tricks, the whole damn mess is out of this world.

An age which is incapable of poetry is incapable of any kind of literature except the cleverness of a decadence.

There are people who can write their memoirs with a reasonable amount of honesty, and there are people who simply cannot take themselves seriously enough. I think I might be the first to admit that the sort of reticence which prevents a man from exploiting his own personality is really an inverted sort of egotism.

I like smooth shiny girls, hardboiled and loaded with sin.