We are all sentenced to solitary confinement inside our own skins, for life.

When so many are lonely as seem to be lonely, it would be inexcusably selfish to be lonely alone.

All good art is an indiscretion.

Time rushes towards us with its hospital tray of infinitely varied narcotics, even while it is preparing us for its inevitably fatal operation.

Mendacity is a system that we live in. Liquor is one way out an death's the other.