Work. Don't Think. Relax.

A conglomerate heap of trash, that's what I am. But it burns with a high flame.

I want your loves to be multiple. I don't want you to be a snob about anything. Anything you love, you do it.

I'm inclined to believe you need the psychiatrist.

It is a lie to write in such way as to be rewarded by fame offered you by some snobbish quasi-literary groups in the intellectual gazettes.

With a book tucked in one hand, and a computer shoved under my elbow, I will march, not sidle, shudder or quake, into the twenty-first century.

Like every beginner, I have thought you could beat, pummel and thrash an idea into existence. Under such treatment, of course, any decent idea folds up its paws, turns on its back, fixes its eyes on eternity, and dies.