But life is long. And it is the long run that balances the short flare of interest and passion.

I have taken a pill to kill The thin Papery feeling.

For the few little successes I may seem to have, there are acres of misgivings and self-doubt.

The box is only temporary.

Love is the bone and sinew of my curse.

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."

Now I know what loneliness is, I think. Momentary loneliness, anyway. It comes from a vague core of the self - - like a disease of the blood, dispersed throughout the body so that one cannot locate the matrix, the spot of contagion.