It seemed better to delay thinking.

the writing of some men is like a vast bridge that carries you over the many things that claw and tear. The Wine of Forever

Well, the rain had stopped but the pain was still there.

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.

It was hard for me to believe. When recess was over I sat in class and thought about it. My mother had a hole and my father had a dong that shot juice. How could they have things like that and walk around as if everything was normal, and talk about things, and then do it and not tell anybody?

Do some living and get yourself a typewriter.

Don't ever write a novel unless it hurts like a hot turd coming out.