“She may be going to Hell, of course, but at least she isn't standing still”

“may i feel said he(i'll squeal said shejust once said he)it's fun said she(may i touch said hehow much said shea lot said he)why not said she(let's go said henot too far said shewhat's too far said hewhere you are said she)may i stay said he(which way said shelike this said heif you kiss said shemay i move said heis it love said she)if you're willing said he(but you're killing said shebut it's life said hebut your wife said shenow said he)ow said she(tiptop said hedon't stop said sheoh no said he)go slow said she(cccome?said heummm said she)you're divine!said he(you are Mine said she)”

“Listen; there's a hell of a good universe next door: let's go.”

“if i or anybody don't know where it her his my next meal's coming from i say to hell with that that doesn't matter (and if he she it or everybody gets a bellyful without lifting my finger i say to hell with that i say that doesn't matter) but if somebody or you are beautiful or deep or generous what i say is whistle that sing that yell that spell that out big (bigger than cosmic rays w ar earthquakes famine or the ex prince of whoses diving into a whatses to rescue miss nobody's probably handbag) because i say that's not swell (get me) babe not (understand me) lousy kid that's something else my sweet (i feel that's true)”

“may I be I is the only prayer--not may I be great or good or beautiful or wise or strong.”

“I was too tired to think. I merely felt the town as a unique unreality. What was it? I knew -- the moon's picture of a town. These streets with their houses did not exist, they were but a ludicrous projection of the moon's sumptuous personality. This was a city of Pretend, created by the hypnotism of moonnight. -- Yet when I examined the moon she too seemed but a painting of a moon and the sky in which she lived a fragile echo of color. If I blew hard the whole shy mechanism would collapse gently with a neat soundless crash. I must not, or lose all.”

“may my heart always be open to littlebirds who are the secrets of livingwhatever they sing is better than to knowand if men should not hear them men are old may my mind stroll about hungryand fearless and thirsty and suppleand even if it's sunday may i be wrongfor whenever men are right they are not young and may myself do nothing usefullyand love yourself so more than trulythere's never been quite such a fool who could failpulling all the sky over him with one smile”