At My Age The Bones Are Water

To Eat Bread Without Hope Is Still Slowly To Starve To Death.

No Writer, I Believe, Should Attempt A Novel Before He Is Thirty, And Not Then Unless He Has Been Hopelessly And Helplessly Involved In Life. For The Writer Who Goes Out To Find Material For A Novel, As A Fishermen Goes Out To Sea To Fish, Will Certainly Not Write A Good Novel. Life Has To Be Lived Thoughtlessly, Unconsciously, At Full Tilt And For No Purpose Except Its Own Sake Before It Becomes, Eventually, Good Material For A Novel.

When One Commits One's Self To An Airborne Craft And The Door Is Fastened Against Earth And Home, There Is No Escape Even By Running Away. The Result Is A Strange Sense Of Peace - Desperate, Perhaps, But Peace.

The Typhoon Came Out Of The Sea First As A Deep Hollow Roar. ... I Was Surrounded By The Madness, The Unreason, Of Uncontrolled, Undisciplined Energy. None Of This Made Any Sense. It Was Worse Than Useless - It Was Nature Destroying Its Own Creation - Its Own Self. To Create By The Long Process Of Growth And Then To Destroy By A Fit Of Wild Emotion - Was This Not Madness, Was This Not Unreason?

Nothing In Life Is As Good As The Marriage Of True Minds Between Man And Woman. As Good? It Is Life Itself.