Quotes About Rejection

love be damned now as love was damned when it first arrived.

girls please give your bodies and your lives to the young men who deserve them besides there is no way I would welcome the intolerable dull senseless hell you would bring me and I wish you luck in bed and out but not in mine thank you.

Don't do it. Don't love me.

she knew what she wanted and it wasn't / me. / I know more women like that than any / other kind.

My flesh looked like it wasn't trying. It looked like it hated being part of me.

Sometimes you have to take the whole concept of Art and throw it out on its whore ass.

That's your response to everything: drink? No, that's my response to nothing.

The dog approached again, cautiously. I found the bologna sandwich, ripped off a chunk, wiped the cheap watery mustard off, then placed it on the sidewalk. The dog walked up to the bit of sandwich, put his nose to it, sniffed, then turned and walked off. This time he didn't look back. He accelerated down the street. No wonder I had been depressed all my life. I wasn't getting proper nourishment.

Once a woman turns against you, forget it. They can love you, then something turns in them. They can watch you dying in a gutter, run over by a car, and they'll spit on you.

I didn't like anybody in that school. I think they knew that. I think that's why they disliked me. I didn't like the way they walked or looked or talked, but I didn't like my mother or father either. I still had the feeling of being surrounded by white empty space. There was always a slight nausea in my stomach.

few writers like other writers' works. The only time they like them is when they are dead or if they have been for a long time. Writers only like to sniff their own turds. I am one of those. I don't even like to talk to writers, look at them or worse, listen to them. And the worst is to drink with them, they slobber all over themselves, really look piteous, look like they are searching for the wing of the mother. I'd rather think about death than about other writers. Far more pleasant.

Women wanted men who made money, women wanted men of mark. How many classy women were living with skid row bums? Well, I didn't want a woman anyhow. Not to live with. How could men live with women? What did it mean? What I wanted was a cave in Colorado with three years' worth of foodstuffs and drink. I'd wipe my ass with sand. Anything, anything to stop drowning in this dull, trivial and cowardly existence.

She knew what she wanted and it wasn't me. I know more women like that than any other kind.

I didn't say any more because when you hate, you don't beg...

Lawyers, doctors, plumbers, they all made the money. writers? writers starved. writers suicided. writers went mad.

not being able to love fully they will believe your love incomplete and then they will hate you and their hatred will be perfect

He even got up once in English class and read an essay called 'The Value of Friendship' and while he was reading it he kept glancing at me. It was a stupid essay, soft and standard, but the class applauded when he finished, and I thought, well, that's what people think and what can you do about it? I wrote a counter-essay called, 'The Value of No Friendship At All.' The teacher didn't let me read it to the class. She gave me a D.

all the poets wanted to get disability insurance it was better than immortality.

I don't want to stay where I'm not wanted. I don't want to stay where I'm disliked.

Lawyers, doctors, plumbers, they made all the money. Writers? Writers starved. Writers suicided. Writers went mad.

Cecelia sat and watched us drink. I could see that I repulsed her. I ate meat. I had no god. I liked to fuck. Nature didn't interest me. I never voted. I liked wars. Outer space bored me. Baseball bored me. History bored me. Zoos bored me.

am not a complete person—I'm a stunted city person. I am more or less a failed drizzling shit with absolutely nothing to offer." "Christ," she said, "don't you think I know that?" She

But I gave the girl my address and phone number, thinking we might make it on the springs. (Harriet, you never arrived.)

You realize when you're plucked out of the mainstream that it doesn't need you or anybody else.