People don’t need love. What they need is success in one form or another. It can be love but it needn’t be.
Not everybody thought they could be a dentist or an automobile mechanic but everybody knew they could be a writer.
It was true that I didn’t have much ambition, but there ought to be a place for people without ambition, I mean a better place than the one usually reserved. How in the hell could a man enjoy being awakened at 6:30 a.m. by an alarm clock, leap out of bed, dress, force-feed, s***, p***, brush teeth and hair, and fight traffic to get to a place where essentially you made lots of money for somebody else and were asked to be grateful for the opportunity to do so?
I was a man who thrived on solitude; without it I was like another man without food or water. Each day without solitude weakened me. I took no pride in my solitude; but I was dependent on it. The darkness of the room was like sunlight to me.
For each Joan of Arc there is a Hitler perched at the other end of the teeter-totter. The old story of good and evil.
But most men, fortunately, aren’t writers, or even cab drivers, and some men – many men – unfortunately aren’t anything.