“I met a genius on the traintodayabout 6 years old,he sat beside meand as the train ran down along the coastwe came to the oceanand then he looked at meand said,it’s not pretty.”

“the tigers have found meand I do not care.”

“what you werewill not happen again.the tigers have found meand I do not care.”

“and you invented meand I invented youand that's why we don'tget alongon this bedany longer.you were the world'sgreatest inventionuntil youflushed meaway.now it's your turnto wait for the touchof the handle.somebody will do itto you,bitch,and if they don'tyou will - mixed with your owngreen or yellow or whiteor blueor lavendergoodbye.”

“When I was young I was depressed all the time. But suicide no longer seemed a possibility in my life. At my age there was very little left to kill. It was good to be old, no matter what they said. It was reasonable that a man had to be at least 50 years old before he could write with anything like clarity.”

“Baby," I said, "I'm a genius but nobody knows it but me.”

“Thirty- eight years old and he was finished. He sipped at the coffee and remembered where he had gone wrong -- or right. He'd simply gotten tired -- of the insurance game, of the small offices and high glass partitions, the clients; he'd simply gotten tired of cheating on his wife, of squeezing secretaries in the elevator and in the halls;he'd gotten tired of Christmas parties and New Year's parties and birthdays, and payments on new cars and furniture payments -- light, gas, water -- the whole bleeding complex of necessities.He'd gotten tired and quit, that's all. The divorce came soon enough and the drinking came soon enough, and suddenly he was out of it. He had nothing, and he found out that having nothing was difficult too. It was another type of burden. If only there were some gentler road in between. It seemed a man only had two choices -- get in on the hustle or be a bum.”