Heaven Was The Place Where You Kept

I Need The Pain Of Loneliness To Make My Imagination Work.

Writing My Own Diary Is The Best Form Of Remembrance, But Only For My Own Use. I Need These Notes; It's Like An Impulse.

As Soon As I Observed Myself From Outside Myself, I Recognized And Understood That I Had A Long-standing Habit Of Keeping An Eye On Myself. That's How I Managed To Pull Myself Together, Over The Years, Checking Myself From The Outside.

After All, Isn't The Purpose Of The Novel, Or Of A Museum, For That Matter, To Relate Our Memories With Such Sincerity As To Transform Individual Happiness Into A Happiness All Can Share?

I Think A Lot About The Poems I Wasn't Able To Write...i Masturbrated...solitude Is Essentially A Matter Of Pride; You Bury Yourself In Your Own Scent. The Issue Is The Same For All Real Poets. If You've Been Happy For Too Long, You Become Banal. By The Same Token, If You've Been Unhappy For A Long Time, You Lose Your Poetic Power...happiness And Poverty Can Only Coexist For The Briefest Time. Afterword Either Happiness Coarsens The Poet Or The Poem Is So True It Destroys His Happiness.