One cannot divine nor forecast the conditions that will make happiness; one only stumbles upon them by chance, in a lucky hour, at the world's end somewhere, and hold fast to the days.

I have worries and fears just like everybody else. But I have every reason to wake up each morning and be very happy.

Happiness is a hard master, particularly other people's happiness.

Happy. Just in my swim shorts, barefooted, wild-haired, in the red fire dark, singing, swigging wine, spitting, jumping, running—that's the way to live. All alone and free in the soft sands of the beach by the sigh of the sea out there, with the Ma-Wink fallopian virgin warm stars reflecting on the outer channel fluid belly waters. And if your cans are redhot and you can't hold them in your hands, just use good old railroad gloves, that's all.

I reached for sleep and drew it round me like a blanket muffling pain and thought together in the merciful dark

Happiness is a monstrosity! Punished are those who seek it.