The same common sense which makes an author write good things, makes him dread they are not good enough to deserve reading.
The destination you think is going to make you happy, doesn't.
Sometimes I feel like the corner in the circle.
Improvise. Write your own damn story.
Love the things you love as best as you can love them in the time you have in their presence.
Silence. There are times it's the only thing I want and I wonder how I'll ever go back to the world of noise and distraction.
Silence allows me to hear what's really going on in my head.
I know right a way there's a person that's very insecure; that he's trying to out do me. And, ah, like I was saying before, if you give one-hundred percent of your best, and you may have fault, but there is nothing you can do, because you gave one-hundred percent.
A beginning idea for a book might be: a boy emerges from a hole in the ground. He enters a house. The book will take place in the first ten minutes following his arrival.
Those dreams are true which we have in the morning, as the lamp begins to flicker. [Lat. , Namque sub Aurora jam dormitante lucerna Sommia quo cerni tempore vera solent. ]
On the Bowery, in the ornate carcass of a formerly grand vaudeville theater, a dance marathon limps along. The contestants, young girls and their fellas, hold one another up, determined to make their mark, to bite back at the dreams sold to them in newspaper advertisements and on the radio. They have sores on their feet but stars in their eyes.