Meanwhile, Back at the Sex Farm

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I knew that I should leave that place now and go somewhere else, because it wasn't any good that night. The trouble was that it wouldn't be any better anyplace else, and I knew that too, but I didn't want to stay there any longer. Part of it was that I was getting a little drunk and drunks always depress me; and part of it was that I wasn't getting anywhere near drunk enough. The real trouble was not the people and not the talk, although god knows they were both pretty bad that night, but just that I was seeing too much sense in everything. I was beginning to wonder again what in hell had happened to my life when I wasn't looking, and where everything had gone. It was one of those panicky moods that used to send me back to my room and my typewriter to put a few eternal verities on paper, as though if I didn't get it said I might forget it, but I had found out that when I did that I was usually too drunk to write, and when I read it over the next day it never was what I had wanted it to be. After I had tried that a few times I didn't do it any more, and every time now that somebody tells me that so-and-so does his best work when he is drunk I can be damned certain that so-and-so isn't worth reading. Trying to write when you are drunk is like climbing into bed with a cunt when you are too drunk to get a hard on; if anything at all happens in either case you are lucky, and if you end up with something pretty good you always know that if you hadn't been drunk it would have been better. So I knew that I wasn't going back to my room to work. I was just going there because there wasn't any better place to be.

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