What a gigantic step it is not to move.
At the age of fourteen I discovered writing as an escape from a world of reality in which I felt acutely uncomfortable.
It is only in his work that an artist can find reality and satisfaction, for the actual world is less intense than the world of his invention and consequently his life, without recourse to violent disorder, does not seem very substantial. The right condition for him is that in which his work in not only convenient but unavoidable.
You see, baby, after a glass or two of wine I’m inclined to extravagance.
Something in me will save me from utter ruin no matter what comes.
If the writing is honest it cannot be separated from the man who wrote it.
When so many are lonely as seem to be lonely, it would be inexcusably selfish to be lonely alone.
There are people I feel in other parts of the world who will never meet me or hear my name. They are probably better off. I help them inwardly. I feel their souls seeking light, and I help all who come.
You can get too heavy on the masculine side of things with all of the action, but then we've got a really nice balance going on when you go home and look at the wives' story lines and what's going on on the home front. I think people really respond to that balance of masculine and feminine.
You can't grow if you're constantly defined by this collection of frozen moments that you keep returning to. And if you can't grow, you're not alive.
I think I'm equally as abusive as the editors normally are for the "Letters and Tomatoes" column, which is the fan mail part of MAD Magazine and an ongoing feature.