I'm a poet, and I like my lies the way my mother used to make them.
The few love affairs which had come my way had been rather silly and sordid. They had not revealed the possibilities of love; in fact I had thought it a somewhat overrated pleasure, a brief and brutal blindness with boredom and disgust hard on its heels.
For pure will, unassuaged of purpose, delivered from the lust of result, is every way perfect.
The Way of Mastery is to break all the rules—but you have to know them perfectly before you can do this; otherwise you are not in a position to transcend them.
Happiness lies within one's self, and the way to dig it out is cocaine.