I would like to spare the time and effort of hack reviewers and, generally, persons who move their lips when reading.

Let all of life be an unfettered howl.

We had been everywhere. We had really seen nothing. And I catch myself thinking today that our long journey had only defiled with a sinuous trail of slime the lovely, trustful, dreamy, enormous country that by then, in retrospect, was no more to us than a collection of dog-eared maps, ruined tour books, old tires, and her sobs in the night — every night, every night — the moment I feigned sleep.

Thus, in pornographic novels, action has to be limited to the copulation of clichés.

The lost glove is happy.

I have no ear for music. When I attend a concert, I endeavor gamely to follow the sequence and relationship of sounds but cannot keep it up for more than a few minutes. Visual impressions, reflections of hands in lacquered wood, a diligent bald spot over a fiddle, take over, and soon I am bored beyond measure by the motions of the musicians.

Existence is a series of footnotes to a vast, obscure, unfinished masterpiece.