I think that as far as language goes I'm an American, I'm afraid, my accent is American, my way of talk is an American way of talk, I'm an old-fashioned American. That's probably one of the reasons why I'm in England now and why I'll always stay in England.

Why am I obsessed with the idea I can justify myself by getting manuscripts published? Is it an escape-an excuse for any social failure-so I can say "No, I don't go out for many extracurricular activities, but I spend a lot of time writing."

I am terrified by this dark thing That sleeps in me; All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.

One thing, I try to be honest. And what is revealed is often rather hideously unflattering.

To learn and think; to think and live; to live and learn: this always, with new insight, new understanding, and new love.

It's a hell of a responsibility to be yourself. It's much easier to be somebody else or nobody at all.

And so I rehabilitate myself - staying up late this Friday night in spite of vowing to go to bed early, because it is more important to capture moments like this, keen shifts in mood, sudden veering of direction - than to lose it in slumber.