Listen," I Told Him. "don't Be So

You're An Expatriate. You've Lost Touch With The Soil. You Get Precious. Fake European Standards Have Ruined You. You Drink Yourself To Death. You Become Obsessed By Sex. You Spend All Your Time Talking, Not Working. You Are An Expatriate, See? You Hang Around Cafts.

Got Tight On Absinthe Last Night. Did Knife Tricks.

The Only Kind Of Writing Is Rewriting.

The Only Place Where You Could See Life And Death, I. E., Violent Death Now That The Wars Were Over, Was In The Bull Ring And I Wanted Very Much To Go To Spain Where I Could Study It. I Was Trying To Learn To Write, Commencing With The Simplest Things, And One Of The Simplest Things Of All And The Most Fundamental Is Violent Death.

And Who Understands? Not Me, Because If I Did I Would Forgive It All.