"Writing has almost always been difficult for me, something I had to do to remain sane, yet never satisfying in any ordinary sense, certainly never exhilarating, and never an activity that might satisfy Socrates’ admonition to find a logos for my life, as I felt it surely had for the authors I admired: even Malcolm Lowry’s dissolutely drunken sprees, even Hart Crane’s beatings at the hands of sailors, beatings he sought out as he ultimately sought the sea; even Céline’s meanness, a bitterness that ate through his heart before it got to his shoes and ate them, too; even these malcontents, though nothing justified their wasted ways, their anger, their multiplication of pain, might be, by their works, somewhat saved, their sins hidden under sublime blots of printer’s ink."
I just about lost a hand today. The receptionist sent out a company wide e-mail telling everyone that a cubicle had been filled up with old swag and chotskies nobody wanted since the re-branding three years ago had made them worthless.
I made the mistake of seeing what they had; and let me just say, I haven't experienced a feeding frenzy quite like that since my last trip to Ross and this almost made the constant state of anarchy reigning there look civilized. I guess bargains on ugly shirts have a special way of bringing out the savage man regardless of income level, and all the more if they're free.
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