Quotes from Andrew Holleran

You know, we queens loathed rain at the beach, small cocks, and reality, I think. In that order.

You know, when people who were once religious no longer believe in God, they never really change; they just go on, hunting for the ecstatic food, trying to satisfy that hunger.

Now, at this moment, in this soft green twilight, this soft green Sunday evening, when the heart of the world seemed to lie beating in the palm of his hand, he sat in that huge house upstairs terrified that he would never live.

Some live for love more than others. And he experienced a death that night.

What do you like to do? Do you like to get fucked a long time, deeply, slowly, searchingly?

It was all over: dead. He had no idea, where Frankie had gone. But what was worse, he was everywhere.

Homosexuality is like a boarding school in which there are no vacations.

what happens to most of these people anyway? They have their fling and then they vanish. They have to take jobs eventually as telephone operators, bartenders, partners in a lamp shop in some little town in the San Fernando mountains… and others take their places… but mostly they just vanish, and you forget about them unless you hear, one day, a certain song.

And remember to ask questions, and notice everything, the orchids and the fruit flies, the children rummaging for food in piles of shit, and the ibis that flies across the moon at dusk. Let us go at least as far as the falls.

During those snowy New England winters, besides learning to rise at five to study calculus and trudge two miles through the drifts for breakfast down the road, he had suppressed some tremendous element in himself that took form in a prudish virginity. While his life was impeccable on the surface, he felt he was behind glass: moving through the world in a separate compartment, touching no one else.

Truly Christ blessed the lepers and the whores, but there is no comfort in the Bible for boys with small winks, and they are the most shunned of all.

While his life was impeccable on the surface, he felt he was behind glass; moving through the world in a separate compartment, touching no one else.

when he said one evening, after they had ruined another lasagne, "When we're fifty, we'll probably be good cooks," Malone was deeply touched; for with those words he had said, "I'll love you till I die.

For you cannot live in New York City very long and not be conscious of the niceties of being rich—the city is, after all, an ecstatic exercise in merchandising—and one evening of his visit to Venezuela Sutherland sat straight up when he read a line of Santayana's: "Money is the petrol of life.

Have you ever noticed," he said, stirred now by this vision of domestic bliss that was beyond his reach, and shocked earlier that evening to find himself crying in the subway on his way home from a client, "that gay people secrete everything in each other's presence but tears?

I just feel it's ruined my life. It drains me, you know, it's like having a tumor, or a parasite! If I were straight I'd get married and that would be it. But being gay, I waste so much time imagining! I hate the lying to my family, and I know I'll never be any of the things they expect of me," he said, "because it's like having cancer but you can't tell them, that's what a secret vice is like.

I never knew how he was going to depress me next.

And the story of a boy's love for a boy will never capture the world's heart as the story of a boy's love for a girl.

There is no reason per se to live. People do things from the heart, not from reason. Ther is no reason to live.

I'd met him sitting in his car outside a men's room at the boat ramp in a town in North Central Florida. But at least once, in London, love and sex had been combined in the same person—love, sex, art, and freedom.

I am in fact so depressed that last night while Bob Cjaneovic was sitting on my face, I began to think how futile life is, no matter what you do—it all ends in Death, we are given such a short time, and everything truly is, as Ecclesiastes says, Vanity, Vanity, Vanity.

I am in fact so depressed that last night while Bob Cjaneovic was sitting on my face, I began to think how futile life is, no matter what you do—it all ends in Death, we are given such a short time, and everything truly is, as Ecclesiastes says, Vanity, Vanity, Vanity. Of course that only made me burrow deeper, but still—to have the thought.

Oh—I discovered venereal warts on my ass last week. Had them burned off by Dr. Jones, in that VD Mill he runs on Lexington Avenue; if you went to him with a broken leg, he'd tell you it was syphilis—too too depressing/cheers.

I have been a full-time fag for the past five years, I realized the other day. Everyone I know is gay, everything I do is gay, all my fantasies are gay, I am what Gus called those people we used to see in discos, bars, baths, all the time—remember? Those people we used to see EVERYWHERE, every time we went out, so that you wanted to call the police and have them arrested?