When I go to the shore, I take along the poems of Pablo Neruda. I suppose it's because the poems are simultaneously lush and ripe and kind of lazy, yet throbbing with life - like summer itself.
I have a very easy life, I can wander around.
Not too much hard work, plenty of time to read, good society, etcetera.
When Hayes was governor of Ohio, he described the job in this manner,
I want to stop. I want to stay on Fårö, and read the books I haven’t read, find out things I haven’t yet found out. I want to write things I haven’t written. To listen to music, and talk to my neighbors. To live together with my wife a very calm, very secure, very lazy existence, for the rest of my life.
The only thing I ever wanted to do is never have to work a day in my life.
I wish the air were pure oxygen, and then as it says in our chemistry book, our life would sweep through its fevered burning course in a few hours and we would live in a perfect delirium of excitement and would die vibrating with passion, for anything would be better than this lazy sluggish life.
I am finally a lady of leisure, and it suits me fine. For the first time in almost 10 decades, I don't have an agenda or a structure to my days.
A novelist is someone who sits around the house all day in his underwear, trying not to smoke.
I don't need to work.
Indolence is the dry rot of even a good mind and a good character; the practical uselessness of both. It is the waste of what might be a happy and useful life.
In my next life I want to be a cat. To sleep 20 hours a day and wait to be fed. To sit around licking my ass.