All artists are two-headed calves.

You call yourself a free spirit, a "wild thing," and you're terrified somebody's gonna stick you in a cage. Well baby, you're already in that cage. You built it yourself. And it's not bounded in the west by Tulip, Texas, or in the east by Somali-land. It's wherever you go. Because no matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself.

You can’t give your heart to a wild thing.

you got to want it to be good, and I don't want it.

I want to still be me when I wake up one fine morning and have breakfast at Tiffany´s.

When God hands you a gift, he also hands you a whip; and the whip is intended for self-flagellation solely.

Most contemporary novelists, especially the American and the French, are too subjective, mesmerized by private demons; theyre enraptured by their navels and confined by a view that ends with their own toes.