Assassins and converts
chit-chatting
with the deaf and mute,
with imbeciles turned loose from Purgatory
a common face
a rather portly guy
with a desk clerk's eyes, not a surrealist's
though now all the surrealists, all the poets
have the eyes of desk clerks
Write in the morning, revise in the afternoon, read at night, and spend the rest of your time exercising your diplomacy, stealth, and charm.
Over the following days my life seemed to return to its normal course. Pure and simple despair alternated with depressive episodes.
Sometimes the fact that everyone in the world writes can be wonderful, because you find fellow-writers everywhere, and sometimes it can be a drag because illiterate jerks strut around sporting all the defects and none of the virtues of a real writer.
Life is supply and demand but that's no way to live. A third leg is needed to keep the table from collapsing into the garbage pit of history.
Thoughtlessly, I would get an urge to cry, and I’d get into the water and swim, and when I had already gotten myself pretty far from shore I’d look up at the sun and it would seem strange to me that it was there, so big and so different from us…
I dreamt that a man was looking back over the anamorphic landscape of dreams, and his gaze, though hard as steel, splintered into multiple gazes, each more innocent, each more defenseless.
He will be the only member of the group to see the day dawning and the disastrous retreat of the night wanderers, each an enigmatic letter in an imaginary alphabet.
If you have patience enough to search, maybe you’ll catch a glimpse of what you’re looking for. It isn’t the devil. It isn’t the state. It isn’t a magical child. It’s the void
I’ve always thought autobiographies were odious. What a waste of time trying to pass a cat off as a rabbit, when what a real writer should do is snare dragons and dress them up as rabbits.
When people read his books they have an uncontrollable desire to hang the author in the town square. I can’t think of a higher honor for a writer.