The Irish are the only men who know how to cry for the dirty polluted blood of all the world. — Norman Mailer

I met Jack Kennedy in November, 1946 … We went out on a double date and it turned out to be a fair evening for me. I seduced a girl who would have been bored by a diamond as big as the Ritz.

I was now at a university in New York, a professor of existential psychology with the not inconsiderable thesis that magic, dread, and the perception of death were the roots of motivation.

The only true journey of knowledge is from the depth of one being to the heart of another.