I strain to hear, but my old ears, for all their obscene hugeness, pick up nothing but snippets.

What else do I have to offer? Nothing happens to me anymore. That’s the reality of getting old, and I guess that’s really the crux of the matter. I’m not ready to be old yet.

Sometimes I think if I had to choose between an ear of corn or making love to a woman, I'd choose the corn.

Why the hell shouldn't I run away with the circus?

...if you expect people to try to do things your way, you're going to have to give some hints as to what that way is.

I used to think I preferred getting old to the alternative, but now I'm not sure. Sometimes the momotony of bingo and sing-alongs and ancient dusty people parked in the hallway in wheelchairs makes me long for death. Particularly when I rememver that I'm one of the ancient dusty people, filed away like some worthless tchotchke.

I don't like outlining, because books are organic things. Sometimes a book doesn't want to be written in a certain way.