#william

I always wanted a guitar. I always wanted to be a cowboy singer because I also listened to Hank Williams, and he would always sing these neat romantic songs. ↗

— Dick Dale

#always #because #cowboy #guitar #hank

I thought I'd be a success even back in the mailroom at William Morris. ↗

— David Geffen

#even #i #morris #success #thought

When he died, Emerson was thought of as the representative American writer par excellence, and his point of view was still so potent that William James was honored to be asked to speak at a centenary celebration. ↗

— Howard Mumford Jones

#american writer #asked #celebration #died #emerson

Imperial is like Robert Caro’s The Power Broker with the attitude of Mike Davis’s City of Quartz, if Robert Caro had been raised in an abandoned grain silo by a band of feral raccoons, and if Mike Davis were the communications director of a heavily armed libertarian survivalist cult, and if the two of them had somehow managed to stitch John McPhee’s cortex onto the brain of a Gila monster, which they then sent to the Mexican border to conduct ten years of immersive research, and also if they wrote the entire manuscript on dried banana leaves with a toucan beak dipped in hobo blood, and then the book was line-edited during a 36-hour peyote séance by the ghosts of John Steinbeck, Jack London, and Sinclair Lewis, with 200 pages of endnotes faxed over by Henry David Thoreau’s great-great-great-great grandson from a concrete bunker under a toxic pond behind a maquiladora, and if at the last minute Herman Melville threw up all over the manuscript, rendering it illegible, so it had to be re-created from memory by a community-theater actor doing his best impression of Jack Kerouac. With photographs by Dorothea Lange. (Viking has my full blessing to use that as a blurb.) ↗

— Sam Anderson

#ny-magazine #sam-anderson #william-t-vollman #attitude

I am the red wheelbarrow of communism. William Carlos Williams wrote a poem about me. ↗

— Jarod Kintz

#misunderstanding #poem #poetry #william-carlos-williams #change

Sometimes there is no choice but to walk into your own house. Far away, you think, and you do not want to see. You come home and you say do not tell me. You say, I have hunted the elk all over the snowfields of the Selway, and I do not want to know what happened here. And then there is a morning you walk in and take a look in your own house, like any traveler. ↗

— William Kittredge

#home #past #snow #william-kittredge #change

With God on your side, what does luck matter? ↗

— Cassandra Clare

#will-herondale #william-herondale #luck