I’m not going to bed after all. Somebody around here hath murdered sleep. Good for him. - J. D. Salinger

The worst thing that being an artist could do to you would be that it would make you slightly unhappy constantly.

I prayed for the city to be cleared of people, for the gift of being alone — a-l-o-n-e: which is the one New York prayer that rarely gets lost or delayed in channels, and in no time at all everything I touched turned to solid loneliness.

They love their reasons for loving us almost as much as they love us, and most of the time more. It's not so good, that way.