Wavieff

“Every once in a while, but not often, you can sit down and write a thing that you know is going to stand people's hair on end for the rest of their lives--a perfect memory of some kind, like a vision, and you can see the words rolling out of your fingers and bouncing around for a while like wild little jewels before they finally roll into place and line up just as exactly like you wanted them to...Wow! Look at that shit! Who wrote that stuff?

What? Me? Hot damn! Let us rumble, keep going, don't slow down--whatever it is, keep doing it. Let's have a little Fun.

Even writing feels like when you catch a moment like this. You feel Pure and natural--Yes, sir, I am a Natural Man tonight. Bring it on. Fuck those people. Tonight we walk with the king. That is my kind of fun, and I like to spread it around. You can't hoard fun. It has no shelf-life.”
― Hunter S. Thompson, Kingdom of Fear: Loathsome Secrets of a Star-Crossed Child in the Final Days of the American Century

“You don't get rich writing science fiction. If you want to get rich, you start a religion.”
― L. Ron Hubbard

“I stand before you now because I never stopped dawdling like an eight-year-old on a spring morning on his way to school. Anything can make me stop and look and wonder, and sometimes learn. I am a very happy man. Thank you.”
― Kurt Vonnegut, Cat's Cradle

“He wasn’t even sure he was alive, because he was living like a dead man. Whereas it looked as if I was the one who’d come up emptyhanded. But I was sure about me, about everything, surer than he could ever be, sure of my life and sure of my death I had waiting for me… I had been right, I was still right, I was always right. I had lived my life one way and I could just as well have lived it another. I had done this and I hadn’t done that… Nothing, nothing mattered, and I knew why. So did he. Throughout the whole absurd life I’ve lived, a dark wind had been rising toward me from somewhere deep in my future, across years that were still to come, and as it passed, this wind leveled whatever was offered to me at the time, in years no more real than the ones I was living. What did other people’s deaths or a mother’s love matter to me; what did his God or the lives people choose or the fate they think they elect matter to me when we’re all elected by the same fate, me and billions of privileged people like him who also called themselves my brothers?”
― Albert Camus, The Stranger