Letters to a Young Poet … by Rainer Maria Rilke (December 4, 1875–December 29, 1926) is among those very few texts — alongside Thoreau’s journal, Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird, and Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek — that I read the way one reads scripture.
I’d say Joyce’s Ulysses is scripture to me. I used to have a couple of others, but that’s the book that has stuck with me.
There are periods of history when the visions of madmen and dope fiends are a better guide to reality than the common-sense interpretation of data available to the so-called normal mind. This is one such period, if you haven’t noticed already. –Robert Anton Wilson
As a rule we disbelieve all the facts and theories for which we have no use. –William James
I’m apparently writing. I ate some food late, and while I was cooking, I was pacing. I was thinking, I was writing. I seem to burning a little brightly right now; that may explain the frustration. I guess. I’m not sure about that, but maybe the burning somehow
It was a long bad day. I was going to write today. It had such promise at the start. Ideas were just bubbling through, and for some reason the wind has shifted. I write all the time, but it’s for me, for my journal. I have to fight to
