Who in the Bible besides Jesus knew – knew – that we’re carrying the Kingdom of Heaven around with us, inside, where we’re all too goddam stupid and sentimental and unimaginative to look?
I’m sick of just liking people. I wish to God I could meet somebody I could respect.
It’s not too bad when the sun’s out, but the sun only comes out when it feels like coming out.
I have scars on my hands from touching certain people.
I can’t explain what I mean. And even if I could, I’m not sure I’d feel like it.
You don’t have to think too hard when you talk to teachers.
I just hope that one day – preferably when we’re both blind drunk – we can talk about it.
Don’t ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.
I don’t know what good it is to know so much and be smart as whips and all if it doesn’t make you happy.
I’m up to my ears in unwritten words.
It’s history. It’s poetry.
People are always ruining things for you.
I am a kind of paranoid in reverse. I suspect people of plotting to make me happy.
You’re lucky if you get time to sneeze in this goddam phenomenal world.
People never notice anything.
Its really hard to be roommates with people if your suitcases are much better than theirs.
Don’t hate me because I can’t remember some person immediately. Especially when they look like everybody else, and talk and dress and act like everybody else.
I’m just sick of ego, ego, ego. My own and everybody else’s. I’m sick of everybody that wants to get somewhere, do something distinguished and all, be somebody interesting. It’s disgusting.
What really knocks me out is a book that, when you’re all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn’t happen much, though.
If a girl looks swell when she meets you, who gives a damn if she’s late? Nobody.