I've always had standards about writing well. There is art in this business. There is potentially great art.
No gangster is ever happy when he's at peace. The main reason he's in the business is to eliminate his enemies.
We do many things we shouldn't in the course of a life. It doesn't make them right or wrong, just a part of who we are.
A true gangster can smell out a person's strenghts and weaknesses in a matter of minutes, but what they can sense most of all, what their bodies are most attuned to, is the scent of fear.
Gangsters live for the action. The closer to death, the nearer to the heated coil of the moment, the more alive they feel. Most would rather succumb to a barrage of bullets from a roomful of sworn enemies than to the debilitation of old age, dying the death of the feeble. A gangster becomes as addicted to the thrill of the battle and the potential to die in the midst of it as he does to he more attractive lures in his path. In his world, the potential for death exists every day. The better gangsters don't shy away from such a dreaded possibility but rather find comfort in its proximity.
Nothing goes further toward a man's liberation than the act of surviving his need for character.
With all the opportunities I had, I could have done more. And if I'd done more, I could have been quite remarkable.
Art has no purpose. It exists for its own sake.
A fellow will hack half a year at a block of marble to make something in stone that hardly resembles a man. The value of statuary is owing to its difficulty. You would not value the finest head cut upon a carrot.