“I want to say something about bad writing. I'm proud of my bad writing. Everyone is so intelligent lately, and stylish. Fucking great. I am proud of Philip Guston's bad painting, I am proud of Baudelaire's mamma's boy goo goo misery. Sometimes the lurid or shitty means having a heart, which's something you have to try to have. Excellence nowadays is too general and available to be worth prizing: I am interested in people who have to find strange and horrible ways to just get from point a to point b.”
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“Don't say mourning. It's too psychoanalytic. I'm not mourning. I'm suffering.”
― Mourning Diary: October 26, 1977–September 15, 1979
― Mourning Diary: October 26, 1977–September 15, 1979
“Something was comforting about strangers—it seemed like they would exist forever as the same, unknowable mass.”
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“People did not know what she knew, that she was not really a woman but a man, often a fat man, but more often, probably, an old man. The fact that she was an old man made it hard for her to be a young woman. It was hard for her to talk to a young man, for instance, though the young man was clearly interested in her. She had to ask herself, Why is this young man flirting with this old man?”
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