it is discouraging to leave the past behind only to see it coming toward you like the thunderstorm which drenched you yesterday.

In general, I would think that at present prose writers are much in advance of the poets. In the old days, I read more poetry than prose, but now it is in prose where you find things being put together well, where there is great ambition, and equal talent. Poets have gotten so careless, it is a disgrace. You can’t pick up a page. All the words slide off.

One may decide that the nipple most nearly resembles a newly ripened raspberry (never, be it noted, the plonk of water on a pond at the commencement of a drizzle, a simple bladder nozzle built on the suction principal gum bubble, mole, or birth ward, bumpy metal button, or the painful red eruption of a swelling), but does one care to see his breakfast fruit as a sweetened milky bowl of snipped nips? no.

it is discouraging to leave the past behind only to see it coming toward you like the thunderstorm which drenched you yesterday.

When book and reader's furrowed brow meet, it isn't always the book that's stupid.

If you were a fully realized person-whatever the hell that would be-you wouldn't fool around writing books.

If death itself were to die, would it have a ghost, and would the ghost of death visit the dead in the guise of someone alive, if only to fright them from any temptation to return?