Anymore, no one's mind is their own.

Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everyone I've ever known.

It's easy to attack and destroy an act of creation. It's a lot more difficult to perform one.

In the white man's world, language, too -- and the way which the white man thinks of it--has undergone a process of change. The white man takes such things as words and literatures for granted, as indeed he must, for nothing in his world is so commonplace. On every side of him there are words by the millions, an unending succession of pamphlets and papers, letters and books, bills and bulletins, commentaries and conversations. He has diluted and multiplied the Word, and words have begun to close in on him. He is sated and insensitive; his regard for language -- for the Word itself -- as an instrument of creation has diminished nearly to the point of no return. It may be that he will perish by the Word.

At the time, my life just seemed too complete, and maybe we have to break everything to make something better out of ourselves.

This is your life and its ending one moment at a time.