It Had Occurred To Him That If

I Never Could Figure Out How Those People Like Bukowski Could Be Both Carousers And Writers At The Same Time, Because To Me Writing Takes As Much Destructive Energy As It Takes To Be A Really Good Professional Drunk.

Sometimes He Thinks That If He Could Only Trace The Path Of His Life Carefully Enough, Everything Would Become Clear. The Ways That He Screwed Up Would Make Sense. He Closes His Eyes Tightly. His Life Wasn't Always A Mistake, He Thinks, And He Breathes Uncertainly For Awhile, Trying To Find A Pathway Into Unconsciousness, Into Sleep.

Identity Issues Are Hardwired Into The Way I Think About Character - It's Almost As If I Can't Get Away From Them Even If I Want To.

You Can't Count On Notoriety Lasting Very Long, And There's No Way To Predict Whether Anyone Will Care About Your Books Or You In Three Years, Let Alone Ten Or Twenty.

I Keep A Daily Journal Of Whatever Weird Thought Comes Into My Mind, Like When I Had A Dream I Was In North Dakota In The Middle Of A Blizzard And For Some Reason The Egyptian Pyramids Were There, Too - That I Was Able To Shuffle Into The Book.