From a letter to a friend

If you're going to allow others to read your work; if you want it to have even the remotest chance of surviving beyond you; one has to let go of trepidation. Your words are pieces of you--replenishing fragments, pheromones loosed on the wind. A lot of times, nothing will come back. Sometimes it will come back twisted, and yes, you'll have to defend yourself. You must want those rare and beautiful instances of true reciprocation badly enough to not be afraid of all the other possibilities.

We are lucky to be remembered at all, and one-in-a-million gets to become a legend that sticks in the world’s consciousness through the ages; considering that, to fret about exactly how one will be remembered seems almost greedy. If my choices are nameless, meaningless dust, versus scorn and notoriety for "corrupting the youth" (we're looking at you, Socrates) I still believe I would rather go down in the history books as something. Even if entire nations don't understand or agree with me, a solitary college student who happens upon my work and feels a moment of clarity, or sympathy, or curiosity from having read my words is enough reason for me to press onward.