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Loneliness is the human condition. Cultivate it. The way it tunnels into you allows your soul room to grow. Never expect to outgrow loneliness. Never hope to find people who will understand you, someone to fill that space. An intelligent, sensitive person is the exception, the very great exception. If you expect to find people who will understand you, you will grow murderous with disappointment. The best you’ll ever do is to understand yourself, know what it is that you want, and not let the cattle stand in your way.” – Janet Fitch, White Oleander
“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.” – Jack Kerouac, On The Road
“Writers don’t make any money at all. We make about a dollar. It is terrible. But then again we don’t work either. We sit around in our underwear until noon then go downstairs and make coffee, fry some eggs, read the paper, read part of a book, smell the book, wonder if perhaps we ourselves should work on our book, smell the book again, throw the book across the room because we are quite jealous that any other person wrote a book, feel terribly guilty about throwing the schmuck’s book across the room because we secretly wonder if God in heaven noticed our evil jealousy, or worse, our laziness. We then lie across the couch facedown and mumble to God to forgive us because we are secretly afraid He is going to dry up all our words because we envied another man’s stupid words. And for this, as I said, we are paid a dollar. We are worth so much more.” – Blue Like Jazz, Donald Miller
“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.” – Jack Kerouac, On The Road
“Writers don’t make any money at all. We make about a dollar. It is terrible. But then again we don’t work either. We sit around in our underwear until noon then go downstairs and make coffee, fry some eggs, read the paper, read part of a book, smell the book, wonder if perhaps we ourselves should work on our book, smell the book again, throw the book across the room because we are quite jealous that any other person wrote a book, feel terribly guilty about throwing the schmuck’s book across the room because we secretly wonder if God in heaven noticed our evil jealousy, or worse, our laziness. We then lie across the couch facedown and mumble to God to forgive us because we are secretly afraid He is going to dry up all our words because we envied another man’s stupid words. And for this, as I said, we are paid a dollar. We are worth so much more.” – Blue Like Jazz, Donald Miller
I picked one final post of yours, this one, to read and comment on, this morning. It just so happens that this post isn't your writing, but rather, quotes of words written by others.
ReplyDeleteBut it turned out to be a fine read, anyway.
I only every once in a while end up on the blogs of writers and book authors such as yourself, Mister Turner. Far more times than not, I don't tend to bother to post even so much as a single, solitary comment in return. Instead, I tend to browse for just a few moments, or at the very most, a minute or three, and then I'm on my way, again, with the blog owner and creator none the wiser for me ever having passed by their way.
For some reason, I ended up reading numerous blog posts of yours in one sitting, and I replied to the majority of the posts that I read all of the way through, if not all of the ones that I actually read. Sorry for inundating you with a flurry of replies/comments, but I suspect that you won't likely mind. Then again, I could be wrong about that - just as I've been wrong about so many things over the course of my life.
I didn't notice replies/comments by others, but honestly, I wasn't really paying close attention to that, as I browsed and did some commenting of my own. It could be that I inadvertently ended up overlooking them. It's not so much that I was ultra-focused upon posts that you had written, as it was a byproduct of the stupor that I often keep company with in my day-to-day routines of life.
Take care of yourself, Charles. I, too, and named Charles, but I'm not a Turner, like you. Not that I have anything against the Turner clan, mind you, for I most assuredly do not.