“There, I was alone with myself. And disgusting as I was it was better than being with somebody else, anybody else, all of them out there doing their pitiful little tricks and handsprings. I pulled the covers up to my neck and waited.”—Pulp, Bukowski (via bbbeast)
“Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them. And yet what a subtle magic there was in them! They seemed to be able to give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere words! Was there anything so real as words?”—The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde (via whizzbees)
“We’re all lonely for something we don’t know we’re lonely for. How else to explain the curious feeling that goes around feeling like missing somebody we’ve never even met?”—David Foster Wallace (via pavorst)
Writing is a lot like cooking. Some people make inedible books, like cookies left in the oven for too long. But you eat them anyway, because you love the person too much. A bad writer is like your grandmother stirring in salt into your coffee. You love her, so you smile and sip and spit when she isn’t looking.
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“‘That proves you are unusual,’ returned the Scarecrow; ‘and I am convinced that the only people worthy of consideration in this world are the unusual ones. For the common folks are like the leaves of a tree, and live and die unnoticed.”—L. Frank Baum, The Wizard of Oz (via pavorst)