Hulga the whole while hollering like a half-slaughtered hog. (Attention, students of literature! Alliteration - have you noticed? - is my least vice.)
That's not writing, that's typing
[T]he army of wrongness rampant in the world might as well march over me.
New York is the only real city-city.
The only obligation any artist can have is to himself. His work means nothing, otherwise. It has no meaning.
I'd rather have cancer than a dishonest heart. Which isn't being pious. Just practical. Cancer may cool you, but the other's sure to.