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Substitute “damn” every time you’re inclined to write “very;” your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be.

Mark Twain

5 months ago

She was what we used to call a suicide blonde - dyed by her own hand.

Saul Bellow

5 months ago -

1

Lionel was there, a great white shape, leaning on the open door with his brow pressed to his raised wrist, panting huskily, and giving off a faint grey steam in his purple singlet (the lift was misbehaving, and the flat was on the thirty-third floor— but then again Lionel could give off steam while dozing in bed on a quiet afternoon).

Lionel Asbo: State of England

I’m currently reading Martin Amis’,Lionel Asbo: State of England. The storytelling is amazing. I found this interview with Amis on the art of fiction writing. It’s worth reading.

http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/1156/the-art-of-fiction-no-151-martin-amis

Twenty days of schooling and they put you on the day shift.

Bob Dylan

6 months ago -

2

…he now fell silent himself, but standing in front of everybody, ragged and broken and idiotic, right under the light-bulbs, his bony mad face covered with sweat and throbbing veins, saying, “Yes, yes, yes,” as though tremendous revelations were pouring into him all the time now, and I am convinced they were, and the others suspeceted as much and were frightened. He was BEAT—the root, the soul of Beatific.

On the Road- Jack Kerouac

6 months ago -

10

Guitars tinkled. Terry and I gazed at the stars together and kissed. “Manana,” she said. “Everything’ll be all right tomorrow, don’t you think, Sal-honey, man?”

“Sure baby. manana.” It was always manana. For the next week that was all I heard—manana, a lovely word and one that probably means heaven.

On the Road-Jack Kerouac

6 months ago -

24

awakebeforethesun:

I don’t think it hurts, sometimes, to remember where you came from.

I don’t think it hurts, sometimes.

awakebeforethesun:

I don’t think it hurts, sometimes, to remember where you came from.

I don’t think it hurts, sometimes.

The greatest ride in my life was about to come up, a truck with a flatboard at the back, with about six or seven boys sprawled out on it, and the drivers, two young blond farmers from Minnesota, were picking up every single soul they found on that road—the most smiling, cheerful couple of handsome bumpkins you could ever wish to see, both wearing cotton shirts and overalls, nothing else; both thick-wristed and earnest, with broad howareyou smiles for anybody and anything that came across their path. I ran up, said “Is there room?” They said, “Sure, hop on, ‘sroom for everybody.

Jack Kerouac- On the Road

7 months ago -

1