It's Unnecessary And Destructive To Think Of

He Awoke, Opened His Eye. The Room Meant Very Little To Him; He Was Too Deeply Immersed In The Non-being From Which He Had Just Come. If He Had Not The Energy To Ascertain His Position In Time And Space, He Also Lacked The Desire. ... In Utter Comfort, Utter Relaxation He Lay Absolutely Still For A While, And Then Sank Back Into On The The Light Momentary Sleeps That Occur After A Long, Profound One.

Life Is Lived Only Once. And The Less Seriously The Better.

That Was What He Wanted, To Be Baked Dry And Hard, To Feel The Vaporous Worries Evaporating One By One, To Know Finally That All The Damp Little Doubts And Hesitations That Covered The Floor Of His Being Were Curling Up And Expiring In The Great Furnace-blast Of The Sun.

Fiction Should Always Steer Clear Of Political Considerations.

It's Very Hard To Write About That Which Is Always Beautiful And Pleasant And Good. You Don't Get Anywhere With It. There's No Friction In It. There's No Trouble. You Have To Have Trouble. Somebody's Got To Get In Trouble, Or No One Wants To Read It.