Then I decided I would spend the summer writing a novel. That would fix a lot of people.

So much working, reading, thinking, living to do. A lifetime is not long enough. Nor youth to old age long enough. Immortality and permanence be damned. Sure I want them, but they are nonexistent, and won't matter when I rot underground. All I want to say is: I made the best of a mediocre job. It was a good fight while it lasted. And so life goes.

It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it.

Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing.

I like people, but to learn about one individual always appeals to me more than anything.

We must be moving, working, making dreams to run toward; the poverty of life without dreams is too horrible to imagine.

There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone. There is an off-focus light cast by the moon, and the streetlights are part of the spotlight apparatus on a bare stage set up for you to walk through. You get a feeling of being listened to, so you talk aloud, softly, to see how it sounds.