An intellectual says a simple thing in a hard way. An artist says a hard thing in a simple way.

sometimes there's nothing to say about death.

it seemed to me that I had never met another person on earth as discouraging to my happiness as my father. and it appeared that I had the same effect upon him.

and even the trees we walked under seemed less than trees and more like everything else.

My flesh looked like it wasn't trying. It looked like it hated being part of me.

There is nothing that teaches you more than regrouping after failure and moving on.

They have no idea that it can be done by a bus driver, a field hand, or a fry cook. They have no idea where it comes from. It comes from pain, damnation and impossibility. The blow to the soul of the gut. It comes from getting burned and seared and slugged. It comes from...new and awful places and the same old places.