The Writer's Job Is To Get Naked.

Alcohol Whipped Me. Alcohol And I Had Many, Many Marvelous Times Together. We Laughed, We Talked, We Danced At The Party Together; Then One Day I Woke Up And The Band Had Gone Home And I Was Lying In The Broken Glass With A Shirt Full Of Puke And I Said, 'hey, Man, The Ball Game's Up'.

The Artist Lives In An Atmosphere Of Perpetual Failure.

Teaching, Real Teaching, Is - Or Ought To Be - A Messy Business.

Hell Came Right Along With God, Hand In Hand. The Stink Of Sulfur Swirled In The Air Of The Church, Fire Burned In The Aisles, And Brimstone Rained Out Of The Rafters. From The Evangelist's Oven Mouth Spewed Images Of A Place With Pitchforks, And Devils, And Lakes Of Fire That Burned Forever. God Had Fixed A Place Like That Because He Loved Us So Much.

I Believe Some People Are Just Too Damn Smart To Write Fiction.