I must not be selfless: develop a sense of self. A solidness that can't be attacked.

At this rate, I'd be lucky if I wrote a page a day. Then I knew what the problem was. I needed experience. How could I write about life when I'd never had a love affair or a baby or even seen anybody die? A girl I knew had just won a prize for a short story about her adventures among the pygmies in Africa. How could I compete with that sort of thing?

Do we always grind through the present, doomed to throw a gold haze of fond retrospect over the past?

Like a cat I have nine times to die.

We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.

What I cannot forgive is dishonesty - and no matter what, or how hard, I would rather know the truth of which I today had such a clear & devastating vision from his mouth than hear foul evasions, blurrings and rattiness.

You are a dream; I hope I never meet you.