Self pity is easily the most destructive of the non-pharmaceutical narcotics; it is addictive, gives momentary pleasure and separates the victim from reality.
When I was a child I truly loved:
Unthinking love as calm and deep
As the North Sea. But I have lived,
And now I do not sleep.
love maturity life
They watch on, evil, incredibly stupid, enjoying my destruction.
'Poor Grendel's had an accident,' I whisper. 'So may you all.
historical-fiction fiction Historical
Art, of course, is a way of thinking, a way of mining reality.
So childhood too feels good at first, before one happens to notice the terrible sameness, age after age.
Talking, talking. Spinning a web of words, pale walls of dreams, between myself and all I see.
Spinning Dreams Myself
The world is all pointless accident... I exist, nothing else.
Bad art is always basically creepy; that is its first and most obvious identifying sign
criticism Art creepy
All order, I've come to understand, is theoretical, unreal — a harmless, sensible, smiling mask men slide between the two great, dark realities, the self and the world — two snake pits.
reason order illusion
Most creative-writing teachers have had the experience of occasionally helping to produce, by accident, a pornographer.
Not everyone is capable of writing junk fiction: It requires an authentic junk mind.
Heidegger’s parlamblings on ‘Nothing’ and ‘Not’ and ‘the Nothing that Nothings’ were the last supposedly respectable gasp of classical philosophy.
Respect mickelsson-s-ghosts john-gardner