Humor is my default mode.
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.
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...
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...
In a way, gluttony is an athletic feat, a stretching exercise.
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.
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.
We are most alive when we're in love.
Suddenly summoned to witness something great and horrendous, we keep fighting not to reduce it to our own smallness.
Existence itself does not feel horrible it feels like an ecstasy, rather, which we have only to be still to experience.
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...
The fucking world is running out of gas.
A healthy male adult bore consumes each year one and a half times his own weight in other people's patience.
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.
The affair between Boston and Ted Williams has been no mere summer romance; it has been a marriage, composed of spats, mutual disappointments, and, toward the end, a mellowing hoard of shared memories...
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...
We are cruel enough without meaning to be.
Writers may be disreputable, incorrigible, early to decay or late to bloom but they dare to go it alone.
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