[Y]outh is hardly human: it can't be, for the young never believe they will die...especially would they never believe that death comes, and often, in forms other than the natural one.

I guess if you're that thin and that small you don't need to take up too much space or breathe that much air. You just keep on going.

That's all a writer has to write about - what he sees and hears and what not.

When I'm writing, I never write more than four hours a day.

I think I would have written five times as much as I've written if I didn't have this terrible sense of perfection.

And since gin to artifice bears the same relation as tears to mascara, her attractions at once dissembled.

But we are alone, darling child, terribly, isolated each from the other; so fierce is the world's ridicule we cannot speak or show our tenderness; for us, death is stronger than life, it pulls like a wind through the dark, all our cries burlesqued in joyless laughter; and with the garbage of loneliness stuffed down us until our guts burst bleeding green, we go screaming round the world, dying in our rented rooms, nightmare hotels, eternal homes of the transient heart.