I, the dreamer clinging yet to the dream as the patient clings to the last thin unbearable ecstatic instant of agony in order to sharpen the savor of the pain's surcease, waking into the reality, the more than reality, not to the unchanged and unaltered old time but into a time altered to fit the dream which, conjunctive with the dreamer, becomes immolated and apotheosized
The only environment the artist needs is whatever peace, whatever solitude, and whatever pleasure he can get at not too high a cost.
Tomorrow night is nothing but one long sleepless wrestle with yesterday's omissions and regrets.
In every writer there is a certain amount of the scavenger.
Well, between Scotch and nothin', I suppose I'd take Scotch. It's the nearest thing to good moonshine I can find.
Tell about the South. What's it like there. What do they do there. Why do they live there. Why do they live at all.
There is no such thing as was - only is. If was existed, there would be no grief or sorrow.
People need trouble - a little frustration to sharpen the spirit on, toughen it.
Read, read read. Read everything.
Now she hates me. I have taught her that, at least.
I took out my watch and listened to it clicking away, not knowing it couldn't even lie
This is a free country. Folks have a right to send me letters, and I have a right not to read them.
She forced herself once more to think of nothing, to keep her consciousness immersed, as a little dog that one keeps under water until he has stopped struggling
Man performs and engenders so much more than he can or should have to bear. That's how he finds that he can bear anything.
It feels almost soft, like something to be caressed. Only gold feels that way.
Caddy smelled like trees.
Be scared. You can't help that. But don't be afraid. Ain't nothing in the woods going to hurt you unless you corner it, or it smells that you are afraid. A bear or a deer, too, has got to be scared of a coward the same as a brave man has got to be.
Then Ben wailed again, hopeless and prolonged. It was nothing. Just sound. It might have been all time and injustice and sorrow become vocal for an instant by a conjunction of planets.
Ever since then I have believed that God is not only a gentleman and a sport; he is a Kentuckian too.
Nothing can injure a man's writing if he's a first-rate writer. If a man is not a first-rate writer, there's not anything can help it much. The problem does not apply if he is not first rate because he has already sold his soul for a swimming pool.
That's sad too, people cannot do anything that dreadful they cannot do anything very dreadful at all they cannot even remember tomorrow what seemed dreadful today
The writer's only responsibility is to his art...If a writer has to rob his mother, he will not hesitate; the 'Ode on a Grecian Urn' is worth any number of old ladies.
To me, all human behavior is unpredictable and, considering man's frailty... and... the ramshackle universe he functions in, it's... all irrational.
Good art can come out of thieves, bootleggers, or horse swipes. People really are afraid to find out just how much hardship and poverty they can stand. They are afraid to find out how tough they are. Nothing can destroy the good writer. The only thing that can alter the good writer is death. Good ones don't have time to bother with success or getting rich. Success is feminine and like a woman; if you cringe before her, she will override you. So the way to treat her is to show her the back of your hand. Then maybe she will do the crawling.
I don't suppose anybody ever deliberately listens to a watch or a clock. You don't have to. 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.
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