The hell with "love" anyway, and with every other phony, time-wasting, half-assed emotion in the world.

If you haven't written a novel by the time you're forty you never will!

Hopeless emptiness. Now you've said it. Plenty of people are onto the emptiness, but it takes real guts to see the hopelessness.

She just happened to feel like it. Wasn’t that after all, the only reason there was? Had she ever had a less selfish, more complicated reason for doing anything in her life?

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

A man could rant and smash and grapple with the State Police, and still the sprinklers whirled at dusk on every lawn and the television droned in every living room.

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