I was already old and hadn't made it
as a writer
when a young man sitting on my couch
"what do you think of Huxley living up
in the Hollywood hills while you live down here?"
"I don't think anything about it,"
I told him.
"what do you mean?" he asked.
"I mean, I don't think it has anything
to do with anything."
now the young man who asked me
that question lives up in the hills
and I still live down here
and I still don't think it has anything to do with
especially with writing.
but people keep asking foolish
Charles Bukowski, The Flash of Lightning
Behind the Mountain, Harper Collins, 2004