Writers will be judged by what they write.

There was a time when I thought I loved my first wife more than life itself. But now I hate her guts. I do. How do you explain that? What happened to that love? What happened to it, is what I'd like to know. I wish someone could tell me.

There was this funny thing of anything could happen now that we realized everything had.

But I can hardly sit still. I keep fidgeting, crossing one leg and then the other. I feel like I could throw off sparks, or break a window--maybe rearrange all the furniture.

I'm always learning something. Learning never ends.

In the beginning, when I was trying to write, I couldnt turn off the outside world to the extent that I can now.

And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth.