“Poetry is made in bed like love,” André Breton wrote in one of his surrealist poems. I was a very young man when I read that, and I was enchanted. It confirmed my own experience. When the desire comes over me to write, I have no choice but to remain in a horizontal position, or if I have risen hours before, to hurry back to bed. Silence or noise makes no difference to me. In hotels, I use the “Don’t Disturb” sign on the door to keep away the maids waiting to clean my room. To my embarrassment, I have often chosen to forgo sightseeing and museum visits, so I could stay in bed writing. It’s the illicit quality of it that appeals to me. No writing is as satisfying as the kind that makes one feel that one is doing something the world disapproves of.”

“CHRISTMAS: Celebrating an unmarried teenage mom giving birth in a stable, to a baby who grew up to be a prominent activist for peace, love and anti-capitalist values; who preferred the company of honest prostitutes to that of the religious elite; who partook in radical direct action against the banking system, and was publicly executed as an enemy of state. My prayer today is: let his wisdom guide all who call themselves
christians in this world.”

“Mark Twain tried to swallow an entire planet’s imperialistic, selfish greed, stuff it inside a funny white suit. Then the daughter of Samuel Clemens died. Mark Twain kept working. Samuel Clemens stopped working. We go on, despite. Despite this, to spite this, in spite, we go on. It really is a wonderful joke. It’s really quite hilarious.”