n pursuit of my goal of being a writer, I spent my teens and twenties contemplating higher ideals, like

Money had no place in my value system. Everything connected with it-- say, for example, work-- seemed like a

here was a price for my "lifestyle choice," but I didn't shrink from paying it. I dwelt in hovels; I lived on beans and rice. I found my clothes in the garbage and my furniture on the street. I borrowed-- rather than bought-- books, records and tapes. I exploited every angle. I gave myself home haircuts, shampooed with soap, shaved seldom if ever (to save on razor blades) and pedaled about on a bicycle through the

(in order to avoid paying subway and bus fares). If I ever had to buy anything bigger than a pen, I bought it