Follow your inner moonlight don't hide the madness.

I sleep with men and with women. I am neither queer nor not queer, nor am I bisexual.

It's never too late to do nothing at all.

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of the night.

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.

To gain your own voice, you have to forget about having it heard.

I would say that Times Square was the central hangout for Burroughs, Kerouac, and myself from about 1945 to 1948.

You see those guys wearing baggy pants, descendants of the parachute pants, wearing an odd, weird Frankenstein haircut. It all comes out of Peter Lorre.

I was putting on a stiff upper lip and trying to fulfill the obligations I thought were demanded of me, taking over my father's role of taking care of my mother... and having to be the recipient of her confessions and emotions but of a delusional nature.

I have been wrathful all my life, angry against my father and all others. My wrath must end. All my images now are of heaven.