All creative work, all life in a sense, is a cri de coeur.
Just another four-letter word.
Morning can always be counted on to bring us back to a more realistic level.
But I think the spirit of man is a good adversary.
Men don’t want anything they get too easy. But on the other hand, men lose interest quickly.
How beautiful it is and how easily it can be broken.
Some things are not forgiveable. Deliberate cruelty is not forgiveable. It is the most unforgiveable thing in my opinion, and the one thing in which I have never, ever been guilty.
Personal lyricism is the outcry of prisoner to prisoner from the cell in solitary where each is confined for the duration of his life.
They chatter together like birds on Cypress Hill, but all they say is ‘Live, live, live, live, live!’ It’s all they’ve learned, it’s the only advice they can give.
Everyone says he’s sincere, but everyone isn’t sincere. If everyone was sincere who says he’s sincere there wouldn’t be half so many insincere ones in the world and there would be lots, lots, lots more really sincere ones!
Perhaps the most vivid recollection of my youth is that of the local wheelmen, led by my father, stopping at our home to eat pone, sip mint juleps, and flog the field hands. This more than anything cultivated my life-long aversion to bicycles.
But there are things that happen between a man and a woman in the dark – that sort of make everything else seem – unimportant.
Is a lifetime long enough to hold the regret that I have for that fantastically aborted but crazily sweet love affair?
Well, honey, a shot never does a coke any harm!
Young, gifted, and destitute...
Since that day, when people have spoken to me of “genius”, I have felt the inside pocket to make sure my wallet’s still there.
I saw that it was all over, put away in a box like a doll no longer cared for, the magical intimacy of our childhood together.
Val: Why do you go out there? Sandra: Because dead people give such good advice. Val: What advice do they give? Sandra: Just one word- live!
All pretty girls are a trap, a pretty trap, and men expect them to be.
The rest of my days I’m going to spend on the sea. And when I die, I’m going to die on the sea. You know what I shall die of? I shall die of eating an unwashed grape. One day out on the ocean I will die – with my hand in the hand of some nice looking ship’s doctor, a very young one with a small blond moustache and a big silver watch. “Poor lady,” they’ll say, “The quinine did her no good. That unwashed grape has transported her soul to heaven.