I was a little crazy. You know how it is, how you want to rush into something you know is going to happen, no matter what it is. I guess lovers and suicides both know that feeling.
It is a happy faculty of the mind to slough that which conscience refuses to assimilate.
If happy I can be I will, if suffer I must I can.
This does not matter. This is not anything yet. It all depends on what you do with it, afterward.
A writer is congenitally unable to tell the truth and that is why we call what he writes fiction.
Yes, urge I do: warped chrysalis of what blind perfect seed: for who shall say what gnarled forgotten root might not bloom yet with some globed concentrate more globed and concentrate and heady-perfect because the neglected root was planted warped and lay not dead but merely slept forgot?
The aim of every artist is to arrest motion, which is life, by artificial means and hold it fixed so that a hundred years later, when a stranger looks at it, it moves again since it is life. Since man is mortal, the only immortality possible for him is to leave something behind him that is immortal since it will always move.
And I reckon them that are good must suffer for it the same as them that are bad.
You can be oblivious to the sound for a long while, then in a second of ticking it can create in the mind unbroken the long diminishing parade of time you didn't hear.