It was not apathy. It was an intelligent disinterest in those things that could have no bearing on one's existence.

If they had said my writing wasn't good enough, fair enough, that's an opinion. But to say it's too complex is to insult the intelligence of the so-called young.

Whatever the hell I am, I am Me.

Im writing what comes into my head, or through me, or from somewhere else, and it is the most extraordinary, exciting thing. I love it, and Im very greedy, and I really enjoy it!

The humble were the elect of God. Did not the priests teach so, in their gemmed, kingly robes, from their towering pulpits?

I began to feel lighthearted. Don't ever do that; it tempts some dark and evil force abroad in the universe.

I just love writing. It's magical, it's somewhere else to go, it's somewhere much more dreadful, somewhere much more exciting. Somewhere I feel I belong, possibly more than in the so-called real world.