Novelist

I know who the great poets are.

My witness is the empty sky.

Maybe that's what life is... a wink of the eye and winking stars.

I got all my boyhood in vanilla winter waves around the kitchen stove.

All of life is a foreign country.

You can't teach the old maestro a new tune.

All human beings are also dream beings. Dreaming ties all mankind together.

Maybe that's what life is... a wink of the eye and winking stars.

As you get older, you get more... genealogical.

All our best men are laughed at in this nightmare land.

Avoid the world, it's just a lot of dust and drag and means nothing in the end.

My witness is the empty sky.

Accept loss forever.

The only people for me are the mad ones: the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who... burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow Roman candles.

My manners, abominable at times, can be sweet.

Offer them what they secretly want and they of course immediately become panic-stricken.

Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.

I'm not a beatnik. I'm a Catholic.

My story is endless. I put in a teletype roll, you know, you know what they are, you have them in newspapers, and run it through there and fix the margins and just go, go - just go, go, go.

My fault, my failure, is not in the passions I have, but in my lack of control of them.