Neither could I, actually. I think it's Bukowski

Miles Raymond:
I'm finished. I'm not a writer, I'm a middle school English teacher. Well, the world doesn't give a shit what I have to say. I'm unnecessary. Ha! I'm so insignificant I can't even kill myself. Jack:
Miles, what the hell is that supposed to mean? Miles Raymond:
Come on, man. You know. Hemingway, Sexton, Plath, Woolf. You can't kill yourself before you're even published! Jack:
What about the guy who wrote Confederacy of Dunces? He committed suicide before he was published. Look how famous he is! Miles Raymond:
Thanks. Jack:
Just don't give up, alright? You're gonna make it. Miles Raymond:
Half my life is over and I have nothing to show for it. Nothing. I'm a thumbprint on the window of a skyscraper. I'm a smudge of excrement on a tissue surging out to sea with a million tons of raw sewage. Jack:
See? Right there. Just what you just said. That is beautiful. 'A smudge of excrement... surging out to sea.' Miles Raymond:
Yeah. Jack:
I could never write that. Miles Raymond:
Neither could I, actually. I think it's Bukowski