I loved being in my own head so much, it was getting harder and harder being with other people.
I brandished my parasol at him like a rapier. ‘You, sir, are an abominable scalawag of a man, and I’ll be damned if I let you threaten me.’
I love sleep. My life has the tendency to fall apart when I’m awake, you know.
When I am writing, my problems become invisible, and I am the same person I always was. All is well. I am as I should be.
I like interruptions, of any kind, especially from my own life, because we have such a tendency—something stronger than a tendency, actually–to do the same things all the time. Kierkegaard wrote about repetition as the greatest human good, because it was close to holiness. Yet to me it is so strange that I do the same thing over and over, that I take the same route to the grocery store or when I walk home—it’s intolerable. I want interruptions, I want things to be different all the time.
The more I see of the world, the more I am dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependance that can be placed on appearance of either merit or sense.
My best writing advice? Write something that people might not “enjoy” but will never forget. … Our tastes change with time, and something that persists has a chance of getting appreciated more in the future.
I wish I could have lived my life without making any wrong turns. But that’s impossible. A path like that doesn’t exist. We fail. We trip. We get lost. We make mistakes.