I like to be somewhere at least where you can see a few girls around once in a while, even if they’re only scratching their arms or blowing their noses or even just giggling or something.
She’s quite intelligent, in my stupidity.
I can be quite sarcastic when I’m in the mood.
But I’m Crazy. I swear to God I am.
If you’re going to say the Jesus Prayer, at least say it to Jesus, and not to St. Francis and Seymour and Heidi’s grandfather all wrapped up in one.
But what I mean is, lots of time you don’t know what interests you most till you start talking about something that doesn’t interest you most. I mean you can’t help it sometimes.
Sometimes I see me dead in the rain.
Just go to bed, now. Quickly. Quickly and slowly.
Seymour once said that all we do our whole lives is go from one little piece of Holy Ground to the next. Is he ever wrong?
He said you were the only one who was bitter about S.’s suicide and the only one who really forgave him for it. The rest of us, he said, were outwardly unbitter and inwardly unforgiving.
Real ugly girls have it tough. I feel so sorry for them sometimes.
I wouldn’t exactly describe her as strictly beautiful. She knocked me out, though.
Ask her if she still keeps all her kings in the back row.
He said I was unequipped to meet life because I had no sense of humor.
He seemed unaware of the messiness of the arrangement.
I didn’t want any degrees if all the ill-read literates and radio announcers and pedagogical dummies I knew had them by the peck.
And I can’t be running back and fourth forever between grief and high delight.
You asked me how to get out of the finite dimensions when I feel like it. I certainly don’t use logic when I do it. Logic’s the first thing you have to get rid of.
They love their reasons for loving us almost as much as they love us, and most of the time more. It’s not so good, that way.
I’m not going to bed after all. Somebody around here hath murdered sleep. Good for him.