In some lost fold of the past, we wanted to be lions and we’re no more than castrated cats.

When you die of sorrow it’s as if you’ve broken all the bones in your body, bruised yourself all over, cracked your skull. That’s sorrow.

I’m an educated man, the prisons I know are subtle ones.

I kept having dreams all night. I thought they were touching me with their fingers. But dreams don’t have fingers, they have fists, so it must have been scorpions.

We all have to die a bit every now and then and usually it’s so gradual that we end up more alive than ever. Infinitely old and infinitely alive.

But every single damn thing matters! Only we don’t realize. We just tell ourselves that art runs on one track and life, our lives, on another, and we don’t realize that’s a lie.

I’ll tell you, my friends: it’s all in the nerves. The nerves that tense and relax as you approach the edges of companionship and love. The razor-sharp edges of companionship and love.

When I was done traveling, I returned convinced of one thing: we’re nothing.

There’s no place on earth with more dumb girls per square foot than a college in California.

Nothing good ever comes of love. What comes of love is always something better.