Other people's ideas of us are dependent largely on what they've hoped for.

Most people hew the battlements of life from compromise, erecting their impregnable keeps from judicious submissions, fabricating their philosophical drawbridges from emotional retractions and scalding marauders in the boiling oil of sour grapes.

Death is the only real elegance.

Mr. Fitzgerald-I believe that is how he spells his name-seems to believe that plagiarism begins at home.

I suppose all we can really share with people is a taste for the same kinds of weather.

I play the radio and moon about...and dream of Utopias where its always July the 24th 1935, in the middle of summer forever.

I can't read or sleep. Without hope or youth or money I sit constantly wishing I were dead.