Well, this is good for me, this is experience, I am here for a reason, these moments run into pages, the seamy side of life.

Ask the dust on the road! Ask the Joshua trees standing alone where the Mojave begins. Ask them about Camilla Lopez, and they will whisper her name.

When stuck, hit the road.

If there is work there is warmth, that when a man has freedom of movement it is enough, for then his blood is hot too

You are nobody, and I might have been somebody, and the road to each of us is love.

I write every morning. Two hours. Then I take a break and become my own secretary for a few hours. If I am "hot" I write in the afternoon and at night too.

It was a bad one, the Winter of 1933. Wading home that night through flames of snow, my toes burning, my ears on fire, the snow swirling around me like a flock of angry nuns, I stopped dead in my tracks. The time had come to take stock. Fair weather or foul, certain forces in the world were at work trying to destroy me.