Since I had started to break down all my writing and get rid of all facility and try to make instead of describe, writing had been wonderful to do.

For him it was a dark passage which led to nowhere, then to nowhere, then again to nowhere, once again to nowhere, always and forever to nowhere, heavy on the elbows in the earth to nowhere, dark, never any end to nowhere, hung on all time always to unknowing nowhere, this time and again for always to nowhere, now not to be borne once again always and to nowhere, now beyond all bearing up, up, up and into nowhere, suddenly, scaldingly, holdingly all nowhere gone and time absolutely still and they were both there, time having stopped and he felt the earth move out and away from under them.

A serious writer is not to be confounded with a solemn writer. A serious writer may be a hawk or a buzzard or even a popinjay, but a solemn writer is always a bloody owl.

This is a good place," he said. "There's a lot of liquor," I agreed.

He liked the works of his friends, which is beautiful as loyalty but can be disastrous as judgement.

The rain will stop, the night will end, the hurt will fade. Hope is never so lost that it can't be found.

Hunger is good discipline.