I Can't Write If Someone Else Is

I Should Love To Do A Novel, About One Abnormal Character Seeing Present-day Life, Very Ordinary Life, Yet Arresting Through It, Abnormality, Until At The End The Reader Sees, And With Little Reluctance, That He Is Not Abnormal At All, And That The Main Character Might As Well Be Himself.

The First Person You Should Think Of Pleasing, In Writing A Book, Is Yourself. If You Can Amuse Yourself For The Length Of Time It Takes To Write A Book, The Publisher And The Readers Can And Will Come Later.

One Blow In Anger [would] Kill, Probably, A Child From Aged Two To Eight. Those Over Eight Would Take Two Blows To Kill.

Then Carol Slipped Her Arm Under Her Neck, And All The Length Of Their Bodies Touched Fitting As If Something Had Prearranged It. Happiness Was Like A Green Vine Spreading Through Her, Stretching Fine Tendrils, Bearing Flowers Through Her Flesh. She Had A Vision Of A Pale White Flower, Shimmering As If Seen In Darkness, Or Through Water. Why Did People Talk Of Heaven, She Wondered

He Loved Possessions, Not Masses Of Them, But A Select Few That He Did Not Part With.they Gave A Man Self-respect. Not Ostentation But Quality, And The Love That Cherished The Quality. Possessions Reminded Him That He Existed, And Made Him Enjoy His Existence. It Was As Simple As That. And Wasn' T That Worth Something? He Existed.