I can’t explain what I mean. And even if I could, I’m not sure I’d feel like it.
If you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It’s a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn’t education. It’s history. It’s poetry.
Don’t ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.
I can’t explain what I mean. And even if I could, I’m not sure I’d feel like it.
A confessional passage has probably never been written that didn’t stink a little bit of the writer’s pride in having given up his pride.
I’ll read my books and I’ll drink coffee and I’ll listen to music, and I’ll bolt the door.
I’m just sick of ego, ego, ego. My own and everybody else’s. I’m sick of everybody that wants to get somewhere, do something distinguished and all, be somebody interesting. It’s disgusting.
I am a kind of paranoid in reverse. I suspect people of plotting to make me happy.
It’s funny. All you have to do is say something nobody understands and they’ll do practically anything you want them to.
One day a long time from now you’ll cease to care anymore whom you please or what anybody has to say about you. That’s when you’ll finally produce the work you’re capable of.
