It takes two people to make you, and one people to die. That's how the world is going to end.

A writer strives to express a universal truth in the way that rings the most bells in the shortest amount of time.

Writing a first draft is like trying to build a house in a strong wind.

Because there is something in the touch of flesh with flesh which abrogates, cuts sharp and straight across the devious intricate channels of decorous ordering, which enemies as well as lovers know because it makes them both:---touch and touch of that which is the citadel of the central I-Am's private own: not spirit, soul; the liquorish and ungirdled mind is anyone's to take in any any darkened hallway of this earthly tenement. But let flesh touch with flesh, and watch the fall of all the eggshell shibboleth of caste and color too.

Now she hates me. I have taught her that, at least.

…I seemed to be lying neither asleep nor awake looking down a long corridor of gray half light where all stable things had become shadowy paradoxical all I had done shadows all I had felt suffered taking visible form antic and perverse mocking without relevance inherent themselves with the denial of the significance they should have affirmed thinking I was I was not who was not was not who.

The only environment the artist needs is whatever peace, whatever solitude, and whatever pleasure he can get at not too high a cost.