Rusty thinks I should smoke marijuana, and I did for a while, but it only makes me giggle.
When you’ve got nowhere to turn, turn on the gas.
You can do films for the fun of it, or the thrill of it, but certain films you can’t do unless there’s something driving you, something you have a passion for that will pull you through.
Norman Mailer thinks William Burroughs is a genius, which I think is ludicrous beyond words. I don’t think William Burroughs has an ounce of talent.
Most contemporary novelists, especially the American and the French, are too subjective, mesmerized by private demons; theyre enraptured by their navels and confined by a view that ends with their own toes.
Talent, and genius as well, is like a grain of pearl sand shifting about in the creative mind. A valued tormentor.
My major regret in life is that my childhood was unnecessarily lonely.
Great fury, like great whisky, requires long fermentation.
I know the next best thing is often the very best.
I despise people who can’t control themselves.
I’m very scared, Buster. Yes, at last. Because it could go on forever. Not knowing what’s yours until you’ve thrown it away.
So the days, the last days, blow about in a memory, hazy autumnal, all alike as leaves: until a day unlike any other I’ve lived.
Shoot, boy, the country’s just fulla folks what knows everything, and don’t understand nothing, just fullofem.
I loved her enough to forget myself, my self pitying despairs, and be content that something she thought happy was going to happen.
Love should be allowed. I’m all for it. Now that I’ve got a pretty good idea what it is.
Of many magics, one is watching a beloved sleep: free of eyes and awareness, you for a sweet moment hold the heart of him; helpless, he is then all, and however irrationally, you have trusted him to be, man-pure, child-tender.
The way his plump hand clutched at her hip seemed somehow improper; not morally, aesthetically.
A beautiful day with the buoyancy of a bird.
As Miss Golightly was saying, before she was so rudely interrupted...
He’d always been willing to confess his faults, for, by admitting them, it was as if he made them no longer exist.