Do I like to write? Why? About what? Will I give up and say, "Living and feeding a man's insatiable guts and begetting children occupies my whole life. Don't have time to write"?

If I didn’t think, I’d be much happier.

The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.

I've eaten a bag of Green apples. Boarded the train, there's no getting off

And there's the fallacy of existence: the idea that one could be happy forever and age with a given situation or series of accomplishments.

Now I am silent, hate Up to my neck, Thick, thick. I do not speak.

because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.