“Then I gave up trying to please her and simply fucked her, ripping viciously. It was like murder. I didn't care; my cock had gone crazy.”

“Generally, I decided, it was better to wait, if you had any feeling for the individual. If you hated her right off, it was better to fuck her right off; if you didn't, it was better to wait, then fuck her and hate her later on.”

“I climbed the stairway (there was no elevator) and put the key in. The door swung open. Somebody had changed all the furniture around, put in a new rug. No, the furniture was new, too. There was a woman on the couch. She looked all right. Young. Good legs. Blonde. 'Hello,' I said, 'care for a beer?' 'Hi!' she said. 'All right, I'll have one.' 'I like the way this place is fixed up,' I told her. 'I did it myself.' 'But why?' 'I just felt like it,' she said. We each drank at the beer. 'You're all right,' I said. I put my beercan down and gave her a kiss. I put my hand on one of her knees. It was a nice knee. Then I had another swallow of beer. 'Yes,' I said, 'I really like the way this place looks. It's really going to lift my spirits.' 'That's nice. My husband likes it too.' 'Now why would your husband...What? Your husband? Look, what's this apartment number?' '309.' '309? Great Christ! I'm on the wrong floor! I live in 409.”

“jan was an excellent fuck...she had a tight pussy and she took it like it was a knife that was killing her.”

“Ann, I love you. I hope my car starts. I hope the sink isn't plugged up. I'm glad I didn't fuck a groupie. I'm glad I'm not very good at getting into bed with strange females. I'm glad I'm an idiot. I'm glad I don't know anything. I'm glad I haven't been murdered. When I look at my hands and they are still on my wrists, I think to myself, I am lucky.”

“I didn't like anybody in that school. I think they knew that. I think that's why they disliked me. I didn't like the way they walked or looked or talked, but I didn't like my mother or father either. I still had the feeling of being surrounded by white empty space. There was always a slight nausea in my stomach.”

“A good writer knew when not to write. Anybody could type. Not that I was a good typist; also I couldn't spell and I didn't know grammar. But I knew when not to write. It was like fucking. You had to rest the godhead now and then.”