I've been homesick for countries I've never been, and longed to be where I couldn't be.

Now working is terribly painful and I'm still having a fight with the booze. I've enlisted the help of a doctor but it's touch and go. A day for me; a day for the hootch.

I do not understand the capricious lewdness of the sleeping mind.

For these are not as they might seem to be, the ruins of our civilization, but are temporary encampment and outposts of the civilization that we - you and I - shall build.

When the beginnings of self destruction enter the heart, it seems no bigger than a grain of sand.

The writer cultivates, extends, raises and inflates his imagination, sure that this is his destiny, his usefulness, his contribution to the understanding of good and evil. As he inflates his imagination he inflates his capacity for evil.

Without a reader, I cannot write. It's like a kiss: they cannot be done alone.