I can't hate for long. It isn't worth it.

Mi sueño es agitado. Mis nervios están desquiciados. Mi piel está seca. Mi cabello cae. Mis ojos están apagados. Las uñas de mis manos y mis pies están quebradizas. Estoy envejeciendo. Comienzo a no encontrar gusto en cosa alguna. Empiezo a aburrirme de las cosas buenas, como me aburro de las malas. Estoy muriendo. Estoy muriendo y no tengo hijos.

If you can measure it, don't. If you can weigh it, it isn't worth the bother. It isn't what you're after. It isn't going to get it.

I don't like to see kids throw away their truth just because it isn't worth a dime in the open market.

Neither love nor hate, nor any order of intense adherence to personal involvement in human experience, may be so apt to serve the soul as this freedom and this necessity to be kind.

The most solid advice for a writer is this, I think: Try to learn to breathe deeply, really to taste food when you eat, and when you sleep really to sleep. Try as much as possible to be wholly alive with all your might, and when you laugh, laugh like hell. And when you get angry, get good and angry. Try to be alive. You will be dead soon enough.