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And the lesson was this; sit in the sun, head down, within a prickly vine, in a flickery light, or open light, and the world will come to you. The sky will come in its time, bringing rain, and the earth will rise through you, from beneath, and make you rich and make you full.
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Not to write, for many of us, is to die.
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...I mean, you don't just love people, you must LOVE them with exclamation points.
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You're not like the others. I've seen a few; I know. When I talk, you look at me. When I said something about the moon, you looked at the moon.
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I’ve often been accused of being too emotional and sentimental, but I believe in honest sentiment, and the need to purge ourselves at certain times, which is ancient. Men would live at least five or six more years and not have ulcers if they could cry better.
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Thus through half-belief, we are often doomed to repeat that very past we should have learned from.
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Poverty made a sound like a wet cough in the shadows of the room.
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My stories run up and bite me on the leg - I respond by writing down everything that goes on during the bite. When I finish, the idea lets go and runs off.
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Once you let yourself begin to be grown-up, you face a world full of problems you can't solve. The politicians and specialists - adults, all - have a hard enough time trying to figure out where to look. It doesn't have to be that way. The greatest solutions in society are reached by corporate thinking, ruled by a motive to either make a profit or go out of business.
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The sun burnt every day. It burnt time.
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I just want someone to hear what I have to say. And maybe if I talk long enough, it’ll make sense.
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Life shoould be touched, not strangled. You've got to relax, let it happen at times, and at other move forward with it.
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Oh, what strange wonderful clocks women are. They nest in Time. They make the flesh that holds fast and binds eternity. They live inside the gift, know power, accept, and need not mention it. Why speak of time when you are Time, and shape the universal moments, as they pass, into warmth and action?
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Don't they get afraid, then?" "They have a religion for that.
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Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there.
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Once the automobile appeared you could have predicted that it would destroy as many people as it did.
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I wonder how many men, hiding their youngness, rise as I do, Saturday mornings, filled with the hope that Bugs Bunny, Yosemite Sam and Daffy Duck will be there waiting as our one true always and forever salvation?
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Notoriety and a fat bank balance must come after everything else is finished and done.
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The critics are generally wrong, or they're fifteen, twenty years late. It's a great shame. They miss out on a lot.
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I felt a bit bookish, cut off from life.
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I believe in Darwin and God together.
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You fail only if you stop writing.
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Writing is like sex. You have to save your love for the love object. If you go around spouting about your idea, there'll be no "charge" left. You can't father children that way.
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If you have moved over vast territories and dared to love silly things, you will have learned even from the most primitive items collected and put aside in your life.