A Writer Survives In Spite Of His

And We All Know Love Is A Glass Which Makes Even A Monster Appear Fascinating.

Because The World To-day Is So Constructed That No One Can Do What He Would Like To Do, And He Is Forced, Instead, To Do What Others Wish Him To Do. Because The Question Of Money Always Intrudes—into What We Do, Into What We Are, Into What We Wish To Become, Into Our Work, Into Our Highest Aspirations, Even Into Our Relations With The People We Love!

Yes, One Uses What One Knows, But Autobiography Means Something Else. I Should Never Be Able To Write A Real Autobiography; I Always End By Falsifying And Fictionalizing—i’m A Liar, In Fact. That Means I’m A Novelist, After All. I Write About What I Know.

In Life There Are No Problems, That Is, Objective And External Choices; There Is Only The Life Which We Do Not Resolve As A Problem But Which We Live As An Experience, Whatever The Final Result May Be.

This Thought Strengthened In Me My Belief That All Men, Without Exception, Deserve To Be Pitied, If Only Because They Are Alive.