Open a book this minute and start reading. Don’t move until you’ve reached page
fifty. Until you’ve buried your thoughts in print. Cover yourself with words. Wash yourself away. Dissolve.
Write the book you want to read, the one you cannot find.
This is why I read novels: so I can escape my own unrelenting monologue.
There are chapters in every life which are seldom read, and certainly not aloud.
Here's to another year and let's hope it's above ground.
Bookish people, who are often maladroit people, persist in thinking they can master any subtlety so long as it's been shaped into acceptable expository prose.
In one day I had altered my life; my life, therefore, was alterable. This simple axiom did not call out for exegesis; no, it entered my bloodstream directly, as powerful as heroin. I could feel it pump and surge, the way it brightened my veins to a kind of glass. I had wakened that morning to narrowness and predestination and now I was falling asleep in the storm of my own free will.