When writers die they become books, which is, after all, not too bad an incarnation.
When it came time to hire a guitar player. . . I didn't even have to think about it. . . Mike Bloomfield was the best guitar player I'd ever heard.
You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.
All the money you made will never buy back your soul.
He did ten years in Attica, reading Nietzsche and Wilhelm Reich.
The dirt of gossip blows into my face and the dust rumors cover me. But if the arrow is straight and the point is slick, it can pierce through dust no matter how thick.
You have to work out where your place is. And who you are. But we're all spirit. That's all we are, we're just walking dressed up in a suit of skin, and we're going to leave that behind.
True, trust necessarily carries with it uncertainties, but we must force ourselves to think about these uncertainties as possibilities and opportunities, not as liabilities.
Mathematical discoveries, small or great are never born of spontaneous generation.
You forget what it was like. You'd swear on your life you never will, but year by year it falls away. How your temperature ran off the mercury, your heart galloped flat-out and never needed to rest, everything was pitched on the edge of shattering glass. How wanting something was like dying of thirst. How your skin was too fine to keep out any of the million things flooding by; every color boiled bright enough to scald you, any second of any day could send you soaring or rip you to bloody shreds.
if you wanted to do something absolutely honest, something true, it always turned out to be a thing that had to be done alone.