“Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.”

“Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.”

“TuesdayI have invented a lie.There is no other day but Monday.It seemed reasonable to pretendthat I could change the daylike a pair of socks.To tell the truthdays are all the same sizeand words aren't much company.If I were sick, I'd be a child,tucked in under the woolens, sipping my broth.As it is,the days are not worth grabbing or lying about.Nevertheless, you are the only onethat I can bother with this matter. MondayIt would be pleasant to be drunk:faithless to my tongue and hands,giving up the boundariesfor the heroic gin.Dead drunkis the term I think of,insensible,neither cool nor warm,without a head or foot.To be drunk is to be intimate with a fool.I will try it shortly.”

“When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.”

“I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.”

“But suicides have a special language.Like carpenters they want to know which tools.They never ask why build.Twice I have so simply declared myself,have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy,have taken on his craft, his magic.”

“Depression is boring, I thinkand I would do better to makesome soup and light up the cave.”