I feel that this life is sort of a penal colony. People have goofed or we wouldn't be here.

Now what sort of man or woman or monster would stroke a centipede I have ever seen? ''And here is my good big centipede!'' If such a man exists, I say kill him without more ado. He is a traitor to the human race.

I don’t care if people hate my guts; I assume most of them do. The important question is whether they are in a position to do anything about it.

I feel that any form of so called psychotherapy is strongly contraindicated for addicts. The question ''Why did you start using narcotics in the first place?'' should never be asked. It is quite as irrelevant to treatment as it would be to ask a malarial patient why he went to a malarial area.

I don’t care if people hate my guts; I assume most of them do. The important question is whether they are in a position to do anything about it.

Some people like neat suburbs. I always am attracted to the rundown and the old and the offbeat.