Even in my lowest times i can feel the words bubbling inside of me. And i have to get the words down or be overcome by something worse than death. Words not as precious things but as necessary things. Yet when i begin to doubt my ability to work the word i simply read another writer and then i know i have nothing to worry about. My contest is only with myself, to do it right, with power and force and delite and gamble.



Amazing how grimly we hold on to our misery. The energy we burn fueling our anger.

Amazing how one moment we can be snorling like a beast, then a few moments later, we’re getting what or why.

Not hours of this, or days, or months or years of this, but decades, lifetimes completely used up, given over to the pitiest rancor and hatred. Finally, there’s nothing here for death to take away.



If you’re going to try go all the way, otherwise don’t even start.

This can mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives, jobs and maybe your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail, it could mean deranged, it could mean mockery, isolation…

Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And you’ll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it’d be better than anything else you can imagine.

If you’re going to try go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You’ll be alone with the gods and the nights will flame with fire. You’ll ride straight ahead to perfect laughter. It’s the only good fight there is.



Factotum ( Bent Hamer, 2005 )

Factotum ( Charles Bukowski, 1975 )




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