I don’t know the underlying reason why I’m a bad liar, but I know the reason I get caught is because I can’t look somebody in the eye and lie to them at the same time.
Birth is a hallucinatory experience.
I don’t think that self-loathing really gives you the pleasure that masturbation does.
I started writing because I was tired of considering my own reality. Anyone should be able to write about anything they want, regardless of where they’ve been or where they are now.
This is hardly a tragedy, I realize, and hardly original, but until Hollywood kicked me hard in the nuts I’d always thought that I would succeed massively at whatever I tried.
The business of writing is contingent on the tastes and judgment of others. Editors, critics, Oprah. Again, we adapt to tune it all out.
When you get right down to it, is that I have an overactive dreamlife, and instead of letting it stunt my emotional growth, alienate others, and compromise my sanity, I write.
I can’t keep myself from conversation. I urge you to read in solitude, but I also want to pull you out of that solitude and create some sort of dialogue.
Good work materializes under all economic conditions, so you might as well be wealthy.
The world owes me nothing. The world is indifferent to me, it feels nothing for me. I am merely attempting to secure some sort of foothold on the sheer cliff face up to its sumptuous plateaus.