Factotum

You know, I'm not a clothes man. Clothes bore me. They are terrible things, cons, like vitamins, astrology, pizzas, skating rinks, pop music, heavyweight championship fights, etc.

That's when I first learned that it wasn't enough to just do your job, you had to have an interest in it, even a passion for it.

was my turn for a little good luck, not much, but a little. It was true that I didn’t have much ambition, but there ought to be a place for people without ambition, I mean a better place than the one usually reserved. How in the hell could a man enjoy being awakened at 6:30 a.m. by an alarm clock, leap out of bed, dress, force-feed, shit, piss, brush teeth and hair, and fight traffic to get to a place where essentially you made lots of money for somebody else and were asked to be grateful for the opportunity to do so?

“People don’t need love. What they need is success in one form or another. It can be love but it needn’t be.”

My ambition is handicapped by laziness.

Most fucks are really nothing, they are mostly labor, like trying to climb a very steep, muddy hill.

"Baby," I said, "I'm a genius but nobody knows it but me."

I found a space on a window ledge and sat down. An old black man was sitting next to me. He had an interesting face; he didn’t have the usual resigned look that most of us sitting around the room had. He looked as if he was attempting not to laugh at himself and the rest of us

“How you doing?” he asked.

“O.K.”

“How’d you like a blow job?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“I’m hot, man, I’m excited. I really do it good.”

“Listen, I’m sorry, I’m not in the mood

I kept after her like a horny redneck drunk on beer in a Greyhound bus passing through Texas. She was intrigued—she understood my craziness. I was enchanting her without realizing it.