Let me give you a little inside information about God. God likes to watch. He’s a prankster. Think about it. He gives man instincts. He gives you this extraordinary gift, and then what does He do? I swear, for His own amusement, his own private, cosmic gag reel, He sets the rules in opposition. It’s the goof of all time: Look but don’t touch. Touch, but don’t taste. Taste, don’t swallow. And while you’re jumpin’ from one foot to the next, what is he doing? He’s laughin’ His sick, fuckin’ ass off! He’s a tight-ass! He’s a SADIST! He’s an absentee landlord! Worship that? NEVER!
Here’s to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The trouble-makers. The round heads in the square holes. The ones who see things differently. They’re not fond of rules, and they have no respect for the status-quo. You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify, or vilify them. But the only thing you can’t do is ignore them. Because they change things. They push the human race forward. And while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, are the ones who do.
i know exactly how it is. to love somebody who doesn’t deserve it. because they are all you have. because any attention is better than no attention. for exactly the same reason, it is sometimes satisfying to cut yourself and bleed. on those gray days where eight in the morning looks no different from noon and nothing has happened and nothing is going to happen and you are washing a glass in the sink and it breaks-accidentally-and punctures your skin. and then there is this shocking red, the brightest thing in the day, so vibrant it buzzes, this blood of yours. that is okay sometimes because at least you know you’re alive.
this is what a writer does: his life is a maelstrom of lying. embellishment is his focal point. this is what we do to please others. this is what we do in order to flee ourselves. a writer’s physical life is basically one of stasis, and to combat this constraint, an opposite world and another self have to be constructed daily…the half world of the writer’s life encourages drama and pain, and defeat is good for art: if it was day we made it night, if it was love we made it hate, serenity became chaos, kindness became viciousness, God became the devil, a daughter became a whore.
"Porthos dreams of being a bear and you want to shatter those dreams by saying he’s ‘just a dog’? What a horrible, candle-snuffing word. That’s like saying, ‘he can’t climb that mountain, he’s just a man.’ Or, ‘that’s not a diamond, it’s just a rock.’ Just.”