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

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.

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.

...his job was the very least important part of his life, never to be mentioned except in irony.

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

Remember what Anatole France said about the dog masturbating on your leg--'Sure, it's honest, but who needs it?