The trouble with fashions is you want to fuck the women in their fashions but when the time comes they always take them off so they don't get wrinkled.
Face it, the really great fucks in a man's life was when there was no time to take yr clothes off, you were too hot and she was too hot - none of yr Bohemian leisure, this was middleclass explosions against snowbanks, against walls of shithouses in attics, on sudden couches in the lobby -
Talk about yr hot peace.

Let the mind beware, that though the flesh be bugged, the circumstances of existence are pretty glorious.

Everything fell apart in me. How are things with you?

It’s a sort of furtiveness … Like we were a generation of furtive. You know, with an inner knowledge there’s no use flaunting on that level, the level of the ‘public’, a kind of beatness – I mean, being right down to it, to ourselves, because we all really know where we are – and a weariness with all the forms, all the conventions of the world … It’s something like that. So I guess you might say we’re a beat generation.

Suppose we suddenly wake up and see that what we thought to be this and that, ain't this and that at all?

Camminavo nella sera piena di lillà con tutti i muscoli indolenziti in mezzo alle luci della 27a Strada nella Welton nel quartiere negro di Denver, desiderando di essere un negro, sentendo che quanto di meglio il mondo di bianchi ci aveva offerto non conteneva abbastanza estasi per me, e neppure abbastanza vita, gioia, entusiasmo, oscurità, musica, né notte sufficiente. Mi fermai a una piccola baracca dove un uomo vendeva peperoni rossi caldi in cartocci di carta; ne comprai un po’ e li mangiai, passeggiando per le buie strade misteriose. Desiderai di essere un messicano di Denver, o persino un povero giapponese stremato dal lavoro, tutto fuorché quel che così tristemente ero, un ‘uomo bianco’ disilluso.