Sweet Christ, you must know that a man will go further for any poem than for any woman ever born.
It will rain all this night and we will sleep transfixed by the dark water as our blood runs through our fragile life.
When Ginsburg is at the top of his game you might as well put down your toys and listen.
There’s nothing unusual about love.
My body gnaws at me from one side and my spirit gnaws at me from the other.
Fiction is an improvement on life.
It is possible to be truly mad and to still exist upon scraps of life.
I was only photographing in words the reality of it all.
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.