God knows there certainly ought to be a window around here somewhere, for all of us.

Hard work, is the best medicine yet devised for all the ills of man- and of woman.

In avoiding specific goals he had avoided specific limitations. For the time being the world, life itself, could be his chosen field.

Can you really think artists and writers are the only people entitled to lives of their own?

You're painfully alive in a drugged and dying culture.

Acting might bring on emotional exhaustion, but writing tired your brains out. Writing led to depression and insomnia and walking around all day with a haggard look.

Why did everything always change when all you wanted, all you had ever humbly asked of whatever God there might be, was that certain things be allowed to stay the same?