In My Writing I Even Question The

Writing Is A Lonely Way Of Life. You Shut Yourself Up In Your Study And Work And Work.

That Is The Artist's Job: Take Mineral Rock From Dark Silent Earth, Transform It Into Shining Light-reflecting Form From Sky.

How Undisturbed, The Sleep Of The Foolish.

The Cries Of The Dead Are Terrible Indeed; You Should Try Not To Hear Them.

The Psychotic Does Not Merely Think He Sees Four Blue Bivalves With Floppy Wings Wandering Up The Wall; He Does See Them. An Hallucination Is Not, Strictly Speaking, Manufactured In The Brain; It Is Received By The Brain, Like Any 'real' Sense Datum, And The Patient Act In Response To This To-him-very-real Perception Of Reality In As Logical A Way As We Do To Our Sense Data. In Any Way To Suppose He Only 'thinks He Sees It' Is To Misunderstand Totally The Experience Of Psychosis.