H. Miller – Tropic of Cancer

How the hell can a man write when he doesn’t know where he’s going to sit the next half-hour? If this rich bastard takes the place I won’t even have a place to sleep. It’s hard to know, when you’re in such a jam, which is worse – not having a place to sleep or not having a place to work. One can sleep almost anywhere, but one must have a place to work. Even if it’s not a masterpiece you’re doing. Even a bad novel requires a chair to sit on and a bit of privacy.

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R. Musil – The Man Without Qualities

Thus their walk came to an end. The result for all of them was wet feet, an irritated brain – as though the thin, bare branches on the trees, sparkling in the winter sun had turned to splinters stuck in the retina – a vulgar craving for hot coffee, and the feeling of human forlornness.

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