salvation is for the feeble, that's what I think. I don't want salvation, I want life, all of life, the miserable as well as the superb.

What we, thanks to Jung, call "synchronicity" (coincidence on steroids), Buddhists have long known as "the interpenetration of realities." Whether it's a natural law of sorts or simply evidence of mathematical inevitability (an infinite number of monkeys locked up with an infinite number of typewriters eventually producing 'Hamlet,' not to mention 'Tarzan of the Apes'), it seems to be as real as it is eerie.

Don't talk about it - you'll talk it away. Let the ideas flow from your mind to the page without exposing them to air. Especially hot air.

Outlaws, like lovers, poets, and tubercular composers who cough blood onto piano keys, do their finest work in the slippery rays of the moon.

The only authority I respect is the one that causes butterflies to fly south in fall and north in springtime.

The trick is this: keep your eye on the ball. Even when you can't see the ball.

Western civilization was declining too fast for comfort, but too slowly to be very exciting.