We are all old-timers, each of us holds a locked razor.

Talking about the past is like a cat's trying to explain climbing down a ladder.

Their monument sticks like a fishbone in the city's throat.

September twenty-second, Sir, the bough cracks with unpicked apples, and at dawn the small-mouth bass breaks water, gorged with spawn.

It's a completely powerful and serious book, as good as anything in prose or poetry written by a 'beat' writer, and one of the most alive books written by any American for years. I don't see how it could be considered immoral.

Everywhere, giant finned cars nose forward like fish; a savage servility slides by on grease.

The world is absolutely out of control now and is not going to be saved by any reason or unreason.