It is not my fault that certain so-called bohemian elements have found in my writings something to hang their peculiar beatnik theories on.
Whither goest thou, America, in thy shiny car in the night?
The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue center light pop and everyone goes 'Awww'
My witness is the empty sky.
You can't teach the old maestro a new tune.
If moderation is a fault, then indifference is a crime.
Sidney Sheldon - Maxim Gorky - Louisa May Alcott - J. R. R. Tolkien - Honore de Balzac - Gabriel Garcia Marquez - Arthur Herzog - Anne Rice - Anne Bronte - Alexander Solzehnitsyn