I didn’t intend to die for art nor to be bed bug food for it, nor to ask anyone for help, not my blessed father, who didn’t have it, nor anyone else. And to hell with them all.
I was going to work for it, with my hands …
I would not ‘die for art’, but live for it, grimly! and work, work, work … to write, write as I alone should write.
”— (W.C.W Autobiography, pp. 49–51) 4 years ago