I Feel Sorry For The Man Who

Often Writing Is Like A Struggle To Get Back To A Kind Of Belated, Quite Impure Virginity.

In New York One Lives In The Moment Rather More Than Socrates Advised, So That At A Party Or Alone In Your Room It Will Always Be Difficult To Guess At The Long Term Worth Of Anything.

Death Is Not Soft-mouthed, Vague-footed, Nearby. It Is In The Hall.

Me, My Literary Reputation Is Mostly Abroad, But I Am Anchored Here In New York. I Can't Think Of Any Other Place I'd Rather Die Than Here.

I Often Thought Men Stank Of Rage; It Is Why I Preferred Women, And Homosexuals.