“I am the twentieth century. I am the ragtime and the tango; sans-serif, clean geometry. I am the virgin's-hair whip and the cunningly detailed shackles of decadent passion. I am every lonely railway station in every capital of Europe. I am the Street, the fanciless buildings of government. the cafe-dansant, the clockwork figure, the jazz saxophone, the tourist-lady's hairpiece, the fairy's rubber breasts, the travelling clock which always tells the wrong time and chimes in different keys. I am the dead palm tree, the Negro's dancing pumps, the dried fountain after tourist season. I am all the appurtenances of night.”
“I am lonely, I am lonely, I am lonely, I am lonely, I am lonely. How appropriate that I write this to myself.”
“the truth is, I am heartily sick of this life & of the nineteenth century in general. (I am convinced that every thing is going wrong.)”
“Every day I am someone else. I am myself-I know I am myself-but I am also someone else.It has always been like this.”
“The problem is that I am in the wrong century to burn things. I am the wrong generation to let it go.”
“Why am I afraid to tell you who I am? I am afraid to tell you who I am, because, if I tell you who I am, you may not like who I am, and it's all that I have...”