Here is a great interview that the Paris Review conducted with Ray Bradbury! It is full of paragraphs that you read once or twice or thrice before cautiously but feverishly copying it verbatim on a Post-It that you slap somewhere in your field of vision for everyday veneration, like a creed or a chant or a prayer.
What about Proust, Joyce, Flaubert, Nabokov—writers who tend to think of literature in terms of style and form. Has that line of thought ever interested you?
If people put me to sleep, they put me to sleep. God, I’ve tried to read Proust so often, and I recognize the beauty of his style, but he puts me to sleep. The same for Joyce. Joyce doesn’t have many ideas. I’m completely idea oriented, and I appreciate certain kinds of French writing and English storytelling more. I just can’t imagine being in a world and not being fascinated with what ideas are doing to us.
i. When the proverbial Abrahamic god shuts one door, he opens a floodgate: the Kindle will forestall your efforts to amass a library, but cultivate an expensive graphic novel habit, and you may as well have never bought the thing.
ii. It’s endearing when an item teetering on the verge of the archaic—in the case above, paper—makes an effort to remain in your life, but when you realise there are more inanimate objects than carbon-based life forms clamouring for your time, locate a comfortable corner in your sleeping quarters and proceed to weep freely and openly.
iii. I can only think of two reasons people ever need to think out loud: to work out a problem (“…is four, carry over the one, eight by three is…”) or to self-flagellate (“Why am I such a goddamn IDIOT!”). When else do we do this?