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?
God, I wish you could have been there.
I don't exactly know what I mean by that, but I mean it.
Give me an honest con man any day.
Poets are always taking the weather so personally. They're always sticking their emotions in things that have no emotions.
I knew it wasn't too important, but it made me sad anyway.
I love to write and I assure you I write regularly... But I write for myself, for my own pleasure. And I want to be left alone to do it.
I'm sick of just liking people. I wish to God I could meet somebody I could respect.
You're lucky if you get time to sneeze in this goddam phenomenal world.
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.
Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.
I'm sick of not having the courage to be an absolute nobody.
The true poet has no choice of material. The material plainly chooses him, not he it.
That's something that annoys the hell out of me-I mean if somebody says the coffee's all ready and it isn't.
You can't stop a teacher when they want to do something. They just do it.
I can’t explain what I mean. And even if I could, I’m not sure I’d feel like it.
How long should a man's legs be? Long enough to touch the ground.
If a girl looks swell when she meets you, who gives a damn if she's late? Nobody.
An artist's only concern is to shoot for some kind of perfection, and on his own terms, not anyone else's.
I have scars on my hands from touching certain people.
Oh, this happiness is strong stuff.
Were most of your stars out? Were you busy writing your heart out?
There are nice things in the world - and I mean nice things. We're all such morons to get so sidetracked.
The worst thing that being an artist could do to you would be that it would make you slightly unhappy constantly.
I have scars on my hands from touching certain people…Certain heads, certain colours and textures of human hair leave permanent marks on me.
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