My Flesh Looked Like It Wasn't Trying.

Find What You Love And Let It Kill You.

That's How It Is With Books, Isn't It: They're Not In A Hurry. They'll Wait For You Till You're Ready. People Empty Me. I Have To Go Away To Refill.

You Have To Die A Few Times Before You Can Really Live.

Things Will Be Far Worse Than They Are Now. And Far Better. I Wait.

There Were Always Men Looking For Jobs In America. There Were Always All These Usable Bodies. And I Wanted To Be A Writer. Almost Everybody Was A Writer. Not Everybody Thought They Could Be A Dentist Or An Automobile Mechanic But Everybody Knew They Could Be A Writer. Of Those Fifty Guys In The Room, Probably Fifteen Of Them Thought They Were Writers. Almost Everybody Used Words And Could Write Them Down, I.e., Almost Everybody Could Be A Writer. But Most Men, Fortunately, Aren't Writers, Or Even Cab Drivers, And Some Men - Many Men - Unfortunately Aren't Anything.