...his job was the very least important part of his life, never to be mentioned except in irony.

A man could rant and smash and grapple with the State Police, and still the sprinklers whirled at dusk on every lawn and the television droned in every living room.

Acting might bring on emotional exhaustion, but writing tired your brains out. Writing led to depression and insomnia and walking around all day with a haggard look.

What a subtle, treacherous thing it was to let yourself go that way! Because once you've started it was terribly difficult to stop; soon you were saying "I'm sorry, of course you're right", and "Whatever you think is best", and "you're the most wonderful and valuable thing int he world", and the next thing you knew all honesty, all truth, was as far away and glimmering, as hopelessly unattainable as the world of the golden people.

Remember what Anatole France said about the dog masturbating on your leg--'Sure, it's honest, but who needs it?

In avoiding specific goals he had avoided specific limitations. For the time being the world, life itself, could be his chosen field.

Never say anything that doesn't improve on silence.