Sick in my soul I tried to face the ordeal of seeking forgiveness. From whom? What God, what Christ? They were myths I once believed and now they were beliefs I felt were myths.

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You are nobody, and I might have been somebody, and the road to each of us is love.

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Arturo Bandini: -What does happiness mean to you Camilla? Camilla: -That you can fall in love with whoever you want to, and not feel ashamed of it.

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One night I was sitting on the bed in my hotel room on Buker Hill, down in the middle of Los Angeles. It was an important night in my life, because I had to make a decision about the hotel. Either I paid up or I got out: that was what the note said, the note the landlady had put under my door. A great problem, deserving acute attention. I solved it by turning out the lights and going to bed.

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If there is work there is warmth, that when a man has freedom of movement it is enough, for then his blood is hot too

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When stuck, hit the road.

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Literary criticism is generally bunk. Nonsense. Usually based on self-serving post-intellectual bullshit.

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Los Angeles, give me some of you! Los Angeles come to me the way I came to you, my feet over your streets, you pretty town I loved you so much, you sad flower in the sand, you pretty town!

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Almighty God, I am sorry I am now an atheist, but have You read Nietzsche?

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I felt his hot tears and the loneliness of man and the sweetness of all men and the aching haunting beauty of the living

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