If You Don't Know Why You Like

Illness Reduces Man To His Basic State: A Cloaca In Which The Chemical Processes Continue. The Meaningless Hegemony Of The Involuntary.

It's Very Hard To Write About That Which Is Always Beautiful And Pleasant And Good. You Don't Get Anywhere With It. There's No Friction In It. There's No Trouble. You Have To Have Trouble. Somebody's Got To Get In Trouble, Or No One Wants To Read It.

It's Unnecessary And Destructive To Think Of Oneself At All. People Ask Me, 'what Do You Think Of Yourself As?' My Answer Is, 'nothing.

One Never Took The Time To Savour The Details; One Said: Another Day, But Always With The Hidden Knowledge That Each Day Was Unique And Fatal, That There Never Would Be A Return, Another Time.

We've Never Managed, Either One Of Us, To Get All The Way Into Life. We're Hanging On To The Outside For All We're Worth, Convinced We're Going To Fall Off At The Next Bump.