On Alcohol And Arrogance
"...My apartment is sparse, spartan. It is a high rent downtown apartment and it amuses me to keep it empty. Anoyone who sees it -- a very short list composed of socialites and pseudo-intellectuals whom I hold a deep contempt for -- have invariably remarked on how devoid of culture it is. Shouldn't I, the famous author of man's modern wisdom, surround himself with the finest that the same has to give? I laugh at them and tell them they are stupid, they love it when I do this.
Of course there is no culture here, this is where culture is born. Naked and vulnerable, I shield it from a harsh and cruel world, sacrificing the weakest of them to the public so I can maintain this life. It is significant to note that none of my published works has ever entered this sanctuary. I would not allow it, my worst effort trying to come home and be the prodigal son. Let it struggle and drown in the sea of ignorance, wallowing and prostrating itself on my doorstep.
In fact, there are no books of content in my home. I do not own any. I have read them, and the authors may even hace had a few ideas, but they have no place on my shelves.
Getting back to the matter at hand. The only worthwhile contents of my apartment: Bed, Paper, Pen, Flask, and Bottle. I own a few derivative books as a mocking statement of the state of literature, and there are some slabs of utilitarian furniture occupying random spaces along that half million dollar view. I dominate my apartment, except the kitchen, Bottle owns that. Bottle is my enemy. Flask is my friend.
I spend most of my time Sleeping, Writing, or sharing time with Flask. I share a great deal of my life with him, which is just my way of saying I spend all of my waking life a few degrees below sober. Only when I'm properly Liquored Up can I get the words out of my head and down on paper. Of course, most of the things I write are greater than the public that is so eager to throw even my most meager of work down it's bottomless gullet. Indeed, people seem to like my worst effort the most. If it's devoid of talent they eat it up, and I can live forever off the checks the publisher writes.
And don't get me wrong, I have no moral qualms about taking their money, either. If I'm ever running low on drinking money, I sit down, crank something out, ship it to my agent, and lay back collecting cash. The greatest fix ever must be the feeling of killing my own mind on the fat of a bankrupt society. Cheers! To you, this is a shot of whiskey; to me, it is contempt in a glass. For me, it is a litre of alcohol; For you, it is the next novel you can worship. Drink up, we have a long way to go before we get to hell, and the road gets rougher from here..."
Of course there is no culture here, this is where culture is born. Naked and vulnerable, I shield it from a harsh and cruel world, sacrificing the weakest of them to the public so I can maintain this life. It is significant to note that none of my published works has ever entered this sanctuary. I would not allow it, my worst effort trying to come home and be the prodigal son. Let it struggle and drown in the sea of ignorance, wallowing and prostrating itself on my doorstep.
In fact, there are no books of content in my home. I do not own any. I have read them, and the authors may even hace had a few ideas, but they have no place on my shelves.
Getting back to the matter at hand. The only worthwhile contents of my apartment: Bed, Paper, Pen, Flask, and Bottle. I own a few derivative books as a mocking statement of the state of literature, and there are some slabs of utilitarian furniture occupying random spaces along that half million dollar view. I dominate my apartment, except the kitchen, Bottle owns that. Bottle is my enemy. Flask is my friend.
I spend most of my time Sleeping, Writing, or sharing time with Flask. I share a great deal of my life with him, which is just my way of saying I spend all of my waking life a few degrees below sober. Only when I'm properly Liquored Up can I get the words out of my head and down on paper. Of course, most of the things I write are greater than the public that is so eager to throw even my most meager of work down it's bottomless gullet. Indeed, people seem to like my worst effort the most. If it's devoid of talent they eat it up, and I can live forever off the checks the publisher writes.
And don't get me wrong, I have no moral qualms about taking their money, either. If I'm ever running low on drinking money, I sit down, crank something out, ship it to my agent, and lay back collecting cash. The greatest fix ever must be the feeling of killing my own mind on the fat of a bankrupt society. Cheers! To you, this is a shot of whiskey; to me, it is contempt in a glass. For me, it is a litre of alcohol; For you, it is the next novel you can worship. Drink up, we have a long way to go before we get to hell, and the road gets rougher from here..."