Humor is my default mode.
The Chinese food arrives. Delicious saliva fills his mouth. He really hasn't had any since Texas. He loves this food that contains no disgusting proofs of slain animals, a bloody slab of cow haunch, a...
Momentarily drained of lust, he stares at the remembered contortions to which it has driven him. His life seems a sequence of grotesque poses assumed to no purpose, a magic dance empty of belief. the...
The world keeps ending but new people too dumb to know it keep showing up as if the fun's just started.
In a way, gluttony is an athletic feat, a stretching exercise.
As long as Nelson was socked into baseball statistics or that guitar or even the rock records that threaded their sound through all the fibers of the house, his occupation of the room down the hall wa...
He doesn't blame people for many sins, but he does hate uncoordination, the root of all evil, as he feels it, for without coordination there can be no order, no connecting.
The substance of fictional architecture is not bricks and mortar but evanescent consciousness.
Suddenly summoned to witness something great and horrendous, we keep fighting not to reduce it to our own smallness.
A healthy male adult bore consumes each year one and a half times his own weight in other people's patience.
We are most alive when we're in love.
On being conscious of being a writer: As soon as one is aware of being somebody, to be watched and listened to with extra interest, input ceases, and the performer goes blind and deaf in his overanima...
There is no doubt that I have lots of words inside me; but at moments, like rush-hour traffic at the mouth of a tunnel, they jam.
The fucking world is running out of gas.
He sees now that he is rich that these were the [shore] outings of the poor, ending in sunburn and stomach upset. Pop liked crabcakes and baked oysters but could never eat them without throwing up. Wh...
I must say, when I reread myself, it's the poetry I tend to look at. It's the most exciting to write, and it's over the quickest.
Existence itself does not feel horrible it feels like an ecstasy, rather, which we have only to be still to experience.
Nelson! Stop that this minute! She turns rigid in the glider but does not rise to see what is making the boy cry. Eccles, sitting by the screen, can see. The Fosnacht boy stands by the swing, holding...
Critics are like pigs at the pastry cart.
We are cruel enough without meaning to be.