Let the writer take up surgery or bricklaying if he is interested in technique. There is no mechanical way to get the writing done, no shortcut. The young writer would be a fool to follow a theory. Teach yourself by your own mistakes; people learn only by error. The good artist believes that nobody is good enough to give him advice. He has supreme vanity. No matter how much he admires the old writer, he wants to beat him.
Time is a fluid condition which has no existence except in the momentary avatars of individual people. There is no such thing as was - only is.
The only thing worth writing about is the human heart in conflict with itself
My own experience has been that the tools I need for my trade are paper, tobacco, food, and a little whisky.
I don't want money badly enough to work for it.
A man is the sum of his misfortunes.
a fellow is more afraid of the trouble he might have than he ever is of the trouble he's already got. He'll cling to trouble he's used to before he'll risk a change. Yes. A man will talk about how he'd like to escape from living folks. But it's the dead folks that do him the damage. It's the dead ones that lay quiet in one place and dont try to hold him, that he cant escape from.
The last sound on the worthless earth will be two human beings trying to launch a homemade spaceship and already quarreling about where they are going next.
The most important thing is insight, that is to be - curious - to wonder, to mull, and to muse why it is that man does what he does.
A bus station is where a bus stops. A train station is where a train stops. On my desk, I have a work station….
Believe that man will not merely endure; he will prevail.
Perhaps they were right putting love into books. Perhaps it could not live anywhere else.
One of the saddest things is that the only thing that a man can do for eight hours a day, day after day, is work. You can't eat...nor make love for eight hours...
I could smell the curves of the river beyond the dusk and I saw the last light supine and tranquil upon tideflats like pieces of broken mirror, then beyond them lights began in the pale clear air, trembling a little like butterflies hovering a long way off.
If there is a God what the hell is He for?
Like a fellow running from or toward a gun ain't got time to worry whether the word for what he is doing is courage or cowardice.
Who gathers the withered rose?
Men have been pacifists for every reason under the sun except to avoid danger and fighting.
Talk, talk, talk: the utter and heartbreaking stupidity of words.
He has never been known to use a word that might send a reader to the dictionary.
In writing, you must kill all your darlings.
I think that-that anyone, the painter, the musician, the writer works in a-a kind of an-an insane fury. He's demon-driven. He can get up feeling rotten, with a hangover, or with-with actual pain, and-and if he gets to work, the first thing he knows, he don't remember that pain, that hangover-he's too busy.
Love doesn't die; the men and women do.
And sure enough, even waiting will end...if you can just wait long enough.
For every Southern boy fourteen years old, not once but whenever he wants it, there is the instant when it's still not yet two o'clock on that July afternoon in 1863...
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