To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?

All I want to do is sit on my ass and fart and think of Dante.

I tried to groan, Help! Help! But the tone that came out was that of polite conversation.

Light black. From pole to pole.

My characters have nothing. I'm working with impotence, ignorance... that whole zone of being that has always been set aside by artists as something unusable - something by definition incompatible with art.

Art has always been this--pure interrogation, rhetorical question less the rhetoric--whatever else it may have been obliged by social reality to appear.

Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.