I don’t like the climate, the people, their way of life. Nothing ever happens and then one morning you wake up and find that you are 65. - William Faulkner

The train swung around the curve, the engine puffing with short, heavy blasts, and they passed smoothly from sight that way, with that quality about them of shabby and timeless patience, of static serenity: that blending of childlike and ready incompetence and paradoxical reliability that tends and protects them it loves out of all reason and robs them steadily and evades responsibility and obligations by means too barefaced to be called subterfuge even and is taken in theft or evasion with only that frank and spontaneous admiration for the victor which a gentleman feels for anyone who beats him in a fair contest, and withal a fond and unflagging tolerance for whitefolk's vagaries like that of a grandparent for unpredictable and troublesome children, which I had forgotten.

My, my. A body does get around.

An artist is a creature driven by demons. He doesn't know why they choose him and he's usually too busy to wonder why.