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and even if they don’t pay off, it’s better than waiting for death and oil, and shooting wild turkey, and waiting for the world to begin.
to die on a kitchen floor at 7 o’clock in the morning while other people are frying eggs is not so rough unless it happens to you.
long walks at night— that’s what’s good for the soul:
no, it’s the continuing series of small tragedies that send a man to the madhouse
some people never go crazy. what truly horrible lives they must live.
it’s the order of things: each one gets a taste of honey then the knife.
to awaken in a cheap room in a strange city and pull up the shade— this was the craziest kind of contentment and to walk across the floor to an old dresser with a cracked mirror— see myself, ugly, grinning at it all. what matters most is how well you walk through the fire.
meanwhile while other young men chased the ladies I chased the old books. I was a bibliophile, albeit a disenchanted one and this and the world shaped me.
I am waiting to live, waiting to die.
