I yelled for joy. We passed the bottle. The great blazing stars came out, the far receding hills got dim. I felt like an arrow that could shoot out all the way.
The whole universe was crazy and cock-eyed and extremely strange.
He wasn't drunk on liquor, just drunk on what he liked - crowds of people milling.
Life is life, and kind is kind
We tiptoed around each other like heartbreaking new friends.
I looked up at the dark sky and prayed to God for a better break in life and a better chance to do something for the little people I loved.
Somebody had tipped the American continent like a pinball machine and all the goofballs had come rolling to LA in the southwest corner. I cried for all of us. There was no end to the American sadness and the American madness. Someday we'll all start laughing and roll on the ground when we realize how funny it's been.
Besides, all my New York friends were in the negative, nightmare position of putting down society and giving their tired bookish or political or psychoanalytical reasons, but Dean just raced in society, eager for bread and love.
I'd sleep and forget it; I had my own life, my own sad and ragged life forever.
There was nowhere to go but everywhere, so just keep on rolling under the stars.
Hell man, I know very well you didn't come to me only to want to become a writer, and after all what do I really know about it except that you've got to stick to it with the energy of a benny addict.
Man, wow, there's so many things to do, so many things to write! How to even begin to get it all down and without modified restraints and all hung-up on like literary inhibitions and grammatical fears...
What difference does it make after all?--anonymity in the world of men is better than fame in heaven, for what's heaven? what's earth? All in the mind.
I never saw such crazy musicians. Everybody in Frisco blew. It was the end of the continent; they didn't give a damn.
Soon it got dusk, a grapy dusk, a purple dusk over tangerine groves and long melon fields; the sun the color of pressed grapes, slashed with burgandy red, the fields the color of love and Spanish mysteries.
Better to sleep in an uncomfortable bed free, than sleep in a comfortable bed unfree.
If you can't boogie I know I'll show you how.
They have worries, they're counting the miles, they're thinking about where to sleep tonight, how much money for gas, the weather, how they'll get there - and all the time they'll get there anyway, you see.
Here I was at the end of America...no more land...and nowhere was nowhere to go but back
My aunt once said that the world would never find peace until men fell at their women's feet and asked for forgiveness.
When I got better I realized what a rat he was, but then I had to understand the impossible complexity of his life, how he had to leave me there, sick, to get on with his wives and woes.
I realized these were all the snapshots which our children would look at someday with wonder, thinking their parents had lived smooth, well-ordered lives and got up in the morning to walk proudly on the sidewalks of life, never dreaming the raggedy madness and riot of our actual lives, our actual night, the hell of it, the senseless emptiness.
Texas is undeniable...We were already almost out of America and yet definitely in it and in the middle of where it's maddest.
But they need to worry and betray time with urgencies false and otherwise, purely anxious and whiny, their souls really won't be at peace unless they can latch to an established and proven worry and having once found it they assume facial expressions to fit and go with it, which is, you see, unhappiness, and all the time it all flies by them and they know it and that too worries them no end.
In my madness I was actually in love with her for the few hours it all lasted; it was the same unmistakable ache and stab across the mind, the same sighs, the same pain, and above all the same reluctance and fear to approach.
They spent all week saving pennies and went out Saturdays to spend fifty bucks in three hours.
Here's to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The troublemakers. The round heads in the square holes. The ones who see things differently...
Nobody knows what's going on to happen to anybody beside the forlorn rags of growing old
When you start separating people from their rivers, what have you got? Bureaucracy!
I suddenly began to realize that everybody in America is a natural-born thief.
Thomas Wolfe - Sidney Sheldon - Robert Ludlum - Richard Bach - Nathaniel Hawthorne - Miguel de Cervantes - Boris Pasternak - Arthur Herzog - Alistair Maclean - Alexander Solzehnitsyn