No one holds command over me. No man. No god. No Prince. What is a claim of age for ones who are immortal? What is a claim of power for ones who defy death? Call your damnable hunt. We shall see whom I drag screaming to hell with me.
Old elephants limp off to the hills to die; old Americans go out to the highway and drive themselves to death with huge cars.
A man can live on his wits and his balls for only so long.
Fiction is a bridge to the truth that journalism can’t reach.
As you were, I was. As I am, you will be.
Familiarity seems to breed contempt.
Cover a war in a place where you can’t drink beer or talk to a woman? Hell no!
There was madness in any direction, at any hour. You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning.
Though I was careful never to mention it, I began to see a new dimension in everything that happened.
Old God sure was in a good mood when he made this place.
I felt like a monster reincarnation of Horatio Alger: A man on the move, and just sick enough to be totally confident.
Kill the body and the head will die.
I have always hated bowling, and I don’t mind admitting it.
Not even the foulest atrocities of Adolf Hitler ever shocked me so badly as these Abu Ghraib photographs did.
I have never believed much in luck, and my sense of humor has tended to walk on the dark side.
I’ve already become a mastodon in print – I don’t see a consciousness for my kind of journalism.
Nixon was no more a saint than he was a great president.
Of Richard M. Nixon: A foul caricature of himself, a man with no soul, no inner convictions, with the integrity of a hyena and the style of a poison toad.
There is no way to understand the public reaction to the sight of a Freak smashing a coconut with a hammer on the hood of a white Cadillac in a Safeway parking lot unless you actually do it, and I tell you it’s tense.
I had a soft-spot in my heart for Ronald Reagan, if only because he was a sportswriter in his youth.