I think writing would have happened to me anyway, somehow. Differently, but it still would have happened.

You wait for fate to bring about the changes in life which you should be bringing about by yourself.

Below a certain point, if you keep too quiet, people no longer see you as thoughtful or deep; they simply forget you.

Truth be told, John said, the one thing in this world I want more than anything else is a great big crowbar, to jimmy myself open and take whatever creature that's sitting inside and shake it clean like a rug and then rinse it in a cold, clear lake like up in Oregon, and then I want to put it under the sun to let it heal and dry and grow and sit and come to consciousness again with a clear and quiet mind.

What is human behavior, except trying to prove that we're not animals?

After you're dead and buried and floating around whatever place we go to, what's going to be your best memory of Earth? What one moment for you defines what it's like to be alive on this planet? What's your takeaway? Fake yuppie experiences that you had to spend money on, like white water rafting or elephant rides in Thailand don't count. I want to hear some small moment from your life that proves you're really alive.

Nobody cares about worthiness. People care about what is real inside of you.