Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac
One Flew Over the Cukoo's Nest, by Ken Kessey
Tropic of Cancer, by Henry Miller
The Book of Disquiet, by Fernando Pessoa
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, James Joyce
Not that you give a shit, but these books are all works of sublime beauty. And if there were any justice in the world, you and everyone else would have read them already by now. But hey, maybe that's part of their magic. Nobody cares. (Or maybe you do care and maybe you have read them, in which case I'm a horse's ass)
No generation wants to make a world where Van Gogh's fate is repeated. We just can't help it.
Miracle comes to the miraculous, not to the arithmetician. Talent and success interest me but moderately. The great class, they who affect our imagination, the men and women who could not make their hands meet around their objects, the rapt, the lost, the fools of ideas - they suggest what they cannot execute. They speak to the ages, and are heard from afar. -RWE
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