Contempt For Failure Is Our Cardinal Virtue.

The More Scared We Are Of A Work Or Calling, The More Sure We Can Be That We Have To Do It.

I Believe In Previous Lives And The Muse—and That Books And Music Exist Before They Are Written And That They Are Propelled Into Material Being By Their Own Imperative To Be Born, Via The Offices Of Those Willing Servants Of Discipline, Imagination And Inspiration Whom We Call Artists.

It Can Pay Off, Being A Hack. Given The Depraved State Of American Culture, A Slick Dude Can Make Millions Being A Hack. But Even If You Succeed, You Lose, Because You’ve Sold Out Your Muse, And Your Muse Is You, The Best Part Of Yourself, Where Your Finest And Only True Work Comes From.

Resistance Is Implacable, Intractable, Indefatigable.

The Artist Must Be Like That Marine. He Has To Know How To Be Miserable. He Has To Love Being Miserable. He Has To Take Pride In Being More Miserable Than Any Soldier Or Swabbie Or Jet Jockey. Because This Is War, Baby. And War Is Hell.