Her voice was distinctly separate from the other children's voices, and not just because she was seated nearest me. It had the best upper register, the sweet-est-sounding, the surest, and it automatically led the way.

His voice was oddly and beautifully rough cut, as some small boys'voices are. Each of his phrasings was rather like a little ancient island, inundated by a miniature sea of whiskey.

I mean it's very hard to meditate and live a spiritual life in America. People think you're a freak if you try to.

He cocked the piece. Then he went over and sat down on the unoccupied twin bed, looked at the girl, aimed the pistol, and fired a bullet through his right temple.

Tilting his head back, he slowly released an enormous quantity of smoke from his mouth and drew it up through his nostrils. He continued to smoke in this "French-inhale" style.

My gosh, if I'd just read about one-tenth of what that woman's read and forgotten, I'd be happy. I mean she's taught, she's worked on a newspaper, she designs her own clothes, she does every single bit of her own house work.

I am a kind of paranoiac in reverse. I suspect people of plotting to make me happy.

I'd rather have a goddamn horse. A horse is at least human, for God's sake.

I am a kind of paranoid in reverse. I suspect people of plotting to make me happy.

I say that the true artist-seer, the heavenly fool who can and does produce beauty, is mainly dazzled to death by his own scruples, the blinding shapes and colors of his own sacred human conscience.