I Spend A Hell Of A Lot

When I Am Working On A Book Or A Story I Write Every Morning As Soon After First Light As Possible. There Is No One To Disturb You And It Is Cool Or Cold And You Come To Your Work And Warm As You Write. . . .when You Stop You Are As Empty, And At The Same Time Never Empty But Filling, As When You Have E Made Love To Someone You Love. Nothing Can Hurt You, Nothing Can Happen, Nothing Means Anything Until The Next Day When You Do It Again. It Is The Wait Until The Next Day That Is Hard To Get Through.

As In No Other Form Of Lute Or Combat, The Conditions Are Such; The Winner Takes Nothing, Neither His Ease, Nor His Pleasure, Nor Any Notion Of Glory, Nor If He Wins Far Enough, Will He Find Anything Within Himself.

In The Morning There Was A Big Wind Blowing And The Waves Were Running High Up On The Beach And He Was Awake A Long Time Before He Remembered That His Heart Was Broken.

Some People Show Evil As A Great Racehorse Shows Breeding. They Have The Dignity Of A Hard Chancre.

In Company With People Of Your Own Trade You Ordinarily Speak Of Other Writers' Books. The Better The Writers The Less They Will Speak About What They Have Written Themselves. Joyce Was A Very Great Writer And He Would Only Explain What He Was Doing To Jerks. Other Writers That He Respected Were Supposed To Be Able To Know What He Was Doing By Reading It.