I glanced out the window at the signs of spring. The sky was almost blue, the trees were almost budding, the sun was almost bright.
Millard KaufmanHappiness, it has been observed, is best achieved by those who have been most unhappy heretofore.
Millard KaufmanHappiness when sustained too long in print can rightly be construed as sappiness...
Millard KaufmanThe presumption of divine intervention in human affairs violates my sense of an orderly and comprehensible universe.
Millard KaufmanMots clés page-299
...your zeal to face life's rough and tumble, your ardor to accept the responsibilities of adulthood is hardly congruent with the aspirations of most graduate students...' He shook his head of disagreeable hair. 'I need not tell you,' he deplored, sinking to paralipsis, 'that there resides in almost every one of 'em the unconscious desire not to grow up. For once the academic goal is attained and the doctorate irradicably abbreviated after the name, the problem of facing the world is confronted. The subtlest, most unremitting drive of the student is his unconscious proclivity to postpone the acceptance of responsibility as long as possible.
Millard KaufmanMots clés school student page-49 graduate
It is a fact that every day this time of year,at twenty-three seconds after 4:18, the entire Parthenon of animistic godlings and demons,trolls and sprites of dead chiefs that predated Muhammad, flex their bronzy thews and proceed to gang-piss on Assama. The earliest invaders clocked their movements by it; the lighting,the thunder, and the rain are the sole consistencies of this drowsy, turbulent land,ceaselessly full of surprises, none of them pleasant, all of them keeping you from ever feeling at home.
Millard KaufmanShe wrote poetry constantly; that was her "work". She was a slow bleeder and she slaved over it for long, exhausting hours, and many a middle of a night I could hear her creaking around the dead house with a pen in one hand, a clipboard and a flashlight in the other, refining her poems, jotting down the lines of a conceit. Writing never came easy for her; it gave her calluses. She never courted the muses, she wrestled them, mauled them all over the house and came up, after weeks of peripatetic labor, with a slim Spencerian sonnet, fourteen lines of imagistic jabberwocky.
Millard KaufmanMots clés writing
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