Points of a journey do not matter when the journey has no destination, only an end.

Mary wanted to get out of here and on to another plane of life; but these words weren't going to help her out. They had been put together with only one thing in mind: to lock her in.

On dope he sometimes thought that all the televisions on Calchalk Street were softly cackling about Richard Tull: news flashes about his most recent failures, panel discussions about his obscurity, his neglect.

It’s possible to be flippant here, when Jihadists fly aircraft into buildings they shout God is Great, what do atheists shout when they do it?

Like writing, paintings seem to hint at a topsy-turvy world in which, so to speak, time’s arrow moves the other way.

Richard didn't mind Gwyn being rich...Having always been poor was good preparation for being rich. Better than having always been rich...The well and all its sweet water would surely one day run dry.

Evidentemente � questa la caratteristica della citt� contemporanea. Puoi aver voglia di lavorarci. Ma nessuno si aspetta seriamente che tu ci viva.

You couldn't catch a yawn from someone you didn't like.

Sex was like Disneyland to her: an allotment of organized wonders and legal mischief.

If you want a couple of weeks in bed (as I did, bi-annually), and if you have indolent and credulous parents, it’s amazing what a few packs of French cigarettes will do.

She didn't use the misery of others to cultivate her own smugness, true, but at least I didn't go about eating all their food.

In the Gulag, it was not the case that people died like flies. Rather, flies died like people.

There in the night their bed had the towelly smell of marriage.

After a while, marriage is a sibling relationship--marked by occasional, and rather regrettable, episodes of incest.

I've got two backs, me - and I'm glad! Tits can be . . . mwa, I know, but they're always in the bloody road. Even in bed.

As for me, I'm a gurgling wizard of calorific excess.

Although he liked nearly everything else about himself, Keith hated his redeeming features. In his view they constituted his only major shortcoming -his one tragic flaw.

Since Henry Miller's Tropic books, of course, it has become difficult to talk sensibly about girls' c*nts.

By 12.30, Giles had consumed five gin-rickies, four gin-and-tonics, three gin-and-its, two gin-and-bitters, and one gin.

Gluttony and sloth, as worldly goals, were quietly usurped by avarice and lust, which, together with poetry (yes, poetry), consumed all my free time.

Who let the dogs in? ...This, we fear, is going to be the question. Who let the dogs in? Who let the dogs in? Who? Who?

Are snoopers snooping on their own pain? Probably.

...with the flat smile of the deeply inconvenienced.

The easier a thing is to write then the more the writer gets paid for writing it. (And vice versa: ask the poets at the bus stop.)