“ I’m still there, watching those possessed children, as far away from the mystery now as I was then. I’ve never written, though I thought I wrote, never loved, though I thought I loved, never done anything but wait outside the closed door.
“ L’histoire de ma vie n’existe pas. Ca n’existe pas. Il n’y a jamais de centre. Pas de chemin, pas de ligne. Il y a de vastes endroits où l’on fait croire qu’il y avait quelqu’un, ce n’est pas vrai il n’y avait personne.
I CAN’T TELL WHICH IS MORE DEPRESSING: ME CRYING ALONE TO OLD BRIGHT EYES RECORDS IN MY DEN ON A WARM SPRING DAY OR HOW MUCH LIKE SPIDER MAN’S LONGTIME FOE THE HOBGOBLIN CONOR OBERST NOW LOOKS.
PROBABLY THE HOBGOBLIN THING, BUT ‘MESSENGER BIRD’S SONG’ IS A CLOSE SECOND.
“ Surely mankind must believe in something, or at least seek for the truth, otherwise life is just emptiness, emptiness. To live and not to know why the cranes are flying, why children are born, why there are stars in the sky. Either you must know why it is you live, or everything is trivial - mere pointless nonsense
Life Is Elsewhere
