When I Read A Story, I Relive

Exhibitionism And A Nervous Wish For Concealment, For Anonymity, Thus Battle Inside The Buyer Of Any Piece Of Clothing.

Imagination Of My Kind Is Most Caught, Most Fired, Most Worked Upon By The Unfamiliar: I Have Thrivenon The Changes And Chances, The Dislocations Andcontrasts Which Have Made Up So Much Of My Life.

I Am Dead Against Art's Being Self-expression. I See An Inherent Failure In Any Story Which Fails To Detach Itself From The Author-detach Itself In The Sense That A Well-blown Soap-bubble Detaches Itself From The Bowl Of The Blower's Pipe And Spherically Takes Off Into The Air As A New, Whole, Pure, Iridescent World. Whereas The Ill-blown Bubble, As Children Know, Timidly Adheres To The Bowl's Lip, Then Either Bursts Or Sinks Flatly Back Again.

Nobody Speaks The Truth When There's Something They Must Have.

Very Young People Are True But Not Resounding Instruments.