Commit a crime and the world is made out of glass, and a person could cut himself. What did I know about committing crimes?
"Experience is not a requirement," the [internal] voice countered. "Show somebody a gun, he doesn't ask to see your resume."
Suppose I got arrested?
"It might be unpleasant," the voice allowed. "On the other hand, matters like food and clothing and shelter would no longer be a problem."
Hmmm, I thought.
But what kind of criminal might I be? I at once ruled out anything that might put me on the receiving or inflicting end of violence. In fact, I would have to avoid any sort of confrontation. Embezzlement was not without appeal, but you had to have a job first.
Burglary, I thought, and the more I thought the more I liked it. It seemed somehow akin to writing - you set your own hours, you avoided human contact, and, if you were successful, you managed to touch the lives of people you never even met.
- Lawrence Block, Afterthoughts, Version 2.0, "The Bernie Rhodenbarr Mysteries," pp.105-106
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