Time Is A Circus, Always Packing Up

A Man Nearly Always Loves For Other Reasons Than He Thinks. A Lover Is Apt To Be As Full Of Secrets From Himself As Is The Object Of His Love From Him.

Television Excites Me Because It Seems To Be The Last Stamping Ground Of Poetry, The Last Place Where I Hear Women's Hair Rhapsodically Described, Women's Faces Acclaimed In Odelike Language.

Chicago Is A Sort Of Journalistic Yellowstone Park, Offering Haven To A Last Herd Of Fantastic Bravos.

Writing A Good Movie Brings A Writer About As Much Fame As Steering A Bicycle. It Gets Him, However, More Jobs. If His Movie Is Bad It Will Attract Only Critical Tut-tut For Him. The Producer, Director And Stars Are The Geniuses Who Get The Hosannas When It's A Hit. Theirs Are Also The Heads That Are Mounted On Spears When It's A Flop.

I Haunted Streets, Whorehouses, Police Stations, Courtrooms, Theater Stages, Jails, Saloons, Slums, Madhouses, Fires, Murders, Riots, Banquet Halls And Bookshops. I Ran Everywhere In The City Like A Fly Buzzing In The Works Of A Clock, Tasted More Than Any Fit Belly Could Hold, Learned Not To Sleep, And Buried Myself In A Tick-tock Of Whirling Hours That Still Echo In Me.