Writing Thoughts by Dead Writers, Henry Miller, Every Day We Slaughter Our Finest Impulses

“…that old shithole New York where I was born… A place where I knew nothing but starvation, humiliation, despair, frustration, every god damn thing — nothing but misery. Every bloody street I looked down I see nothing but misery, nothing but monsters …today I think it’s the ugliest and shittiest city in the world…When I was a kid, there was hardly anything that we have today: no telephones; no automobiles; no nothing — really. It was rather quaint, there was even color in the buildings. But as time went on, it got more horrible to me…”

Writing Thoughts by Dead Writers, Henry Miller, Every Day We Slaughter Our Finest Impulses.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s