Keeing busy" is the remedy for all the ills in America. It's also the means by which the creative impulse is destroyed.

I feel a terrible loss when I (eventually must) complete a work of fiction.

Her problem wasn't she was a dumb blonde, it was she wasn't a blonde and she wasn't dumb.

Though I revise constantly as I write, I will usually revise much of the work again after I've reached the ending.

These are the moments for which we live.

Alone, she took hot baths and sat exhausted in the steaming water, wondering at her perpetual exhaustion. All that winter she noticed the limp, languid weight of her arms, her veins bulging slightly with the pressure of her extreme weariness ... one day in January she drew a razor blade lightly across the inside of her arm, near the elbow, to see what would happen.

You can't deny Eros. Eros wills trike, like lightning. Our human defenses are frail, ludicrous. Like plasterboard houses in a hurricane. Your triumph is in perfect submission. And the god of Eros will flow through you, as Lawrence says, in the 'perfect obliteration of blood consciousness.