So many false ideas about what writing is, what art is. So many conceptions when you’re young. When you’re in your twenties. They’re all wrong but they keep you at the wheel and that’s right. Staying at the wheel is the thing. Any port is a useless port if you want to move. Moving is the thing. The work must move. Doesn’t need to be about anything. As long as it moves. David Foster Wallace proved this. He has disciples. He will have a religion. It is a chance of fate that he isn’t considered a son of god, a messiah. The impulse from his devotees and those of Christ is the same. They wear a cross. They-they wear handkerchiefs on their heads, green if possible. Poor Wallace. Poor Hunter S. Thompson. Poor anyone. Hunter S. Thompson, glorious man. Dark and disappointed. Greater education than Wallace in book and street. No one reckons it. Drank with Hell’s Angels. They hate him and respect him. Tell me that’s not living right. Do Hell’s Angels read David Foster Wallace? There’s your thesis. PhD up and coming.
I don’t write my music for Sony. I write it for the people who are screaming down
the road crying to a full-blast stereo.
Im Leben kommt keiner, der dich an die Hand nimmt und sagt “Hey, komm wir machen dein Leben jetzt schön, ich helf dir.” Das musst du schon selber machen.