I know that I haven’t powers enough to divide myself into one who earns and one who creates.

The fact that human beings do not put up forever with misery, humiliation, degradation, actual physical deprivation but act is a fact which every human being should know about. We are a species that makes changes.

It's hard for me to talk about the terrible things that have happened in my lifetime because they didn't need to be.

It is distraction, not meditation, that becomes habitual; interruption, not continuity; spasmodic, not constant toil.

Writers in a profit making economy are an exploitable commodity whose works are products to be marketed, and are so judged and handled.

And when is there time to remember, to sift, to weigh, to estimate, to total?

Literary history and the present are dark with silences . . . I have had special need to learn all I could of this over the years, myself so nearly remaining mute and having to let writing die over and over again in me. These are not natural silences--what Keats called agonie ennuyeuse (the tedious agony)--that necessary time for renewal, lying fallow, gestation, in the natural cycle of creation. The silences I speak of here are unnatural: the unnatural thwarting of what struggles to come into being, but cannot.