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Faced with an exciting question, science tended to provide the dullest possible answer. Ions might charge the air, but they fell flat when it came to charging the imagination—my imagination, anyway.
True art was based upon despair, and the important thing was to make yourself and those around you as miserable as possible.
We lacked the ability to think for ourselves and resented having to admit it.
Along with grits and hush puppies, the abbreviated form of you all was a dangerous step on an insidious path leading straight to the doors of the Baptist church.
“Who am I?” I asked. “I am the only one who is paid to be in this room.” This was nothing I’d necessarily want to embroider on a pillow, but still, once the answer left my mouth, I embraced it as a perfectly acceptable teaching philosophy.
To be broke in New York was to feel a constant, needling sense of failure, as you were regularly confronted by people who had not only more but much, much more.
