"Randolph," he said, "were you ever as young as me?" And Randolph said: "I was never so old." - Truman Capote

But it's Sunday, Mr. Bell. Clocks are slow on Sundays.

I don't want to own anything until I know I've found the place where me and things belong together. I'm not quite sure where that is just yet. But I know what it's like.

[You've said your material chooses you.] That's the difference between the serious artist and the craftsman—-the craftsman can take material and because of his abilities do a professional job of it. The serious artist, like Proust, is like an object caught by a wave and swept to shore. He's obsessed by his material; it's like a venom working in his blood and the art is the antidote.