The end of a life is always vivifying.

My characters have nothing. I'm working with impotence, ignorance... that whole zone of being that has always been set aside by artists as something unusable - something by definition incompatible with art.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm in my right mind. Then it passes off and I'm as intelligent as ever.

It is right that he too should have his little chronicle, his memories, his reason, and be able to recognize the good in the bad, the bad in the worst, and so grow gently old down all the unchanging days, and die one day like any other day, only shorter.

I try. I fail. I try again. I fail better.

Unhappy, but not unhappy enough.

Silence and darkness were all I craved. Well, I get a certain amount of both. They being one.