anyhow, he gave me a copy of Celine’s—what’s it called?—Journey to the End of the Night. now listen, most writers make me sick. their words don’t even touch the paper. thousands of millions of writers and their words, their words don’t even touch the paper. but Celine. made me ashamed of the poor writer I am, I felt like tossing it all. a god damned master whispering into my head. god, I was like a little boy again. listening. there’s nothing between Celine and Dostoyevsky unless it is Henry Miller.
