“A Smudge of Excrement…”

Jack and Miles have a discussion.

Miles Raymond: Well, the world doesn’t give a shit what I have to say. I’m not necessary. Had. I’m so insignificant I can’t even kill myself.

Jack: Miles, what the hell is that supposed to mean?

Miles Raymond: Come on, man. You know. Hemingway, Sexton, Plath, Woolf. You can’t kill yourself before you’re even published.

Jack: What about the guy who wrote Confederacy of Dunces? He killed himself before he was published. Look how famous he is.

Miles Raymond: Thanks.

Jack: Just don’t give up, alright? You’re gonna make it.

Miles Raymond: Half my life is over and I have nothing to show for it. Nothing. I’am thumbprint on the window of a skyscraper. I’m a smudge of excrement on a tissue surging out to sea with a million tons of raw sewage.

Jack: See? Right there. Just what you just said. That is beautiful. ‘A smudge of excrement… surging out to sea.’

Miles Raymond: Yeah.

Jack: I could never write that.

Miles Raymond: Neither could I, actually. I think it’s Bukowski.

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