I'm much more conscious of historical events since the '60s. In the '60s, I was insulated by my own addictions, my own lifestyle, from what was going on in the world. After I recovered I was amazed at certain people who had died. I hadn't noticed that they had gone. Not friends ... I'm talking about public figures who had passed away.

These are the intensities that one cannot live with, that he has to outgrow if he wants to survive. But who can help grieving for them? If the blood vessels could hold them, how much better to keep those early loves with us?

I don't believe in villains or heroes, only in right or wrong ways that individuals are taken, not by choice, but by necessity or by certain still uncomprehended influences in themselves, their circumstances and their antecedents.

A man, when he burns, leaves only a handful of ashes. No woman can hold him. The wind must blow him away.

Once you fully apprehend the vacuity of a life without struggle, you are equipped with the basic means of salvation.

Hell is yourself and the only redemption is when a person puts himself aside to feel deeply for another person.

I gave up visiting my psychoanalyst because he was meddling too much in my private life.