People never think anything is anything really. I'm getting goddam sick of it.

A confessional passage has probably never been written that didn't stink a little bit of the writer's pride in having given up his pride.

Always, always, always referring every goddam thing that happens right back to our lousy little egos.

Why are you breaking down, incidentally? I mean if you’re able to go into a collapse with all your might, why can’t you use the same energy to stay well and busy?

But I was afraid of the questions (much more than the accusations) you might both put to me.

Were most of your stars out? Were you busy writing your heart out?

It is my rather subversive opinion that a writer's feelings of anonymity-obscurity are the second most valuable property on loan to him during his working years.