Write Drunk; Edit Sober.

Before You Quit, You Have To Try

I Had Gone To No Such Place But To The Smoke Of Cafes And Nights When The Room Whirled And You Needed To Look At The Wall To Make It Stop, Nights In Bed, Drunk, When You Knew That That Was All There Was, And The Strange Excitement Of Waking And Not Knowing Who It Was With You, And The World All Unreal In The Dark And So Exciting That You Must Resume Again Unknowing And Not Caring In The Night, Sure That This Was All And All And All And Not Caring.

Once Writing Has Become Your Major Vice And Greatest Pleasure Only Death Can Stop It.

There Are Many Good Fishermen And Some Great Ones. But There Is Only One You.

It Is A Hell Of A Thing To Be Hungry In Your Own House.