I wish to weep but sorrow is stupid. I wish to believe but belief is a graveyard.
The writer has no responsibility other than to jack off in bed alone and write a good page.
Love is a form of prejudice. I have too many other prejudices.
Turgenev was a very serious fellow but he could make me laugh because a truth first encountered can be very funny. When someone else’s truth is the same as your truth, and he seems to be saying it just for you, that’s great.
That’s what friendship is, sharing the prejudice of experience.
The trouble with these people is that their cities have never been bombed and their mothers have never been told to shut up.
I could read the great books but the great books don’t interest me.
Her one drink had Cecelia giggling and talking and she was explaining that animals had souls too. Nobody challenged her opinion. It was possible, we knew. What we weren’t sure of was if we had any.
They laughed. Things were funny. They weren’t afraid to care. There was no sense to life, to the structure of things.
That the young rich smell the stink of the poor and learn to find it a bit amusing. They had to laugh, otherwise it would be too terrifying.
There was nothing glorious about the life of a drinker or the life of a writer.
I’m too careless. I don’t put out enough effort. I’m tired.
I can’t blame her. but wonder why she’s here with me? where are the other guys? how can you be lucky? having someone the others have abandoned?
It seemed better to delay thinking.
People don’t do me much good.
To experience real agony is something hard to write about, impossible to understand while it grips you; you’re frightened out of your wits, can’t sit still, move, or even go decently insane.
Love dries up, I thought as I walked back to the bathroom, even faster than sperm.
Why do we embroider everything we say with special emphasis when all we really need to do is simply say what needs to he said? Of course the fact is that there is very little that needs to be said.
I’m not the cruel type, but they are, and that’s the secret.
Sometimes a man doesn’t know what to do about things and sometimes it’s best to lie very still and try not to think at all about anything.