The downtrodden are the great creators of slang.

It had been a wonderful evening and what I needed now, to give it the perfect ending, was a little of the Ludwig Van.

I chart a little first-list of names, rough synopsis of chapters, and so on. But one daren't overplan; so many things are generated by the sheer act of writing.

What's it going to be then, eh?

The writer's life seethes within but not without.

Suddenly, I viddied what I had to do, and what I had wanted to do, and that was to do myself in; to snuff it, to blast off for ever out of this wicked, cruel world. One moment of pain perhaps and, then, sleep forever, and ever and ever.

Is it better for a man to have chosen evil than to have good imposed upon him?