When the shriveled skin of the ordinary is stuffed out with meaning, it satisfies the senses amazingly.
Waves of hands, hesitations at street corners, someone dropping a cigarette into the gutter-all are stories. But which is the true story? That I do not know. Hence I keep my phrases hung like clothes in a cupboard, waiting for some one to wear them. Thus waiting, thus speculating, making this note and then an· other I do not cling to life. I shall be brushed like a bee from a sunflower. My philosophy, always accumulating, welling up moment by moment, runs like quicksilver a dozen ways at once.
On the outskirts of every agony sits some observant fellow who points.
The art of writing has for backbone some fierce attachment to an idea.
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