Fear of my cruel impulses makes me kind.
Writing about an idea frees me of it. Thinking about it is a circle of repetitions.
In New York, pretending to be above the struggle means no seat on the bus and a table next to the kitchen.
Literature may be false, but it is not trivial.
Often, when I want to consult my impulses, I cannot find them.
In describing someone's character, I reveal my own.