“When I was very young and the urge to be someplace was on me, I was assured by mature people that maturity would cure this itch. When years described me as mature, the remedy prescribed was middle age. In middle age I was assured that greater age would calm my fever and now that I am fifty-eight perhaps senility will do the job. Nothing has worked…. In other words, I don’t improve, in further words, once a bum always a bum. I fear the disease is incurable.”
“We are lonesome animals. We spend all our life trying to be less lonesome. One of our ancient methods is to tell a story begging the listener to say — and to feel — ”Yes, that’s the way it is, or at least that’s the way I feel it. You’re not as alone as you thought.”
I’m sure those who read books know him or at least have heard of him. He might be your favourite novelist or mean nothing to you. Different people, different interests. As for me, I love his work. His words are as if taken from my mind.
I’m not saying I’m great like him, just that I find myself in his words. Thus I want to dedicate my first posts and probably the whole week to this glorious man.