I Want A Dish To Taste Good,

When That Ineffable Compound Of Depression, Sadness (these Two Are Not The Same), Anxiety, Self-hatred, Sense Of Failure And Fear For The Future Begins To Steal Over You, Start Telling Yourself That What You Have Is A Hangover. You Are Not Sickening For Anything, You Have Not Suffered A Minor Brain Lesion, You Are Not All That Bad At Your Job, Your Family And Friends Are Not Leagued In A Conspiracy Of Barely Maintained Silence About What A S**t You Are, You Have Not Come At Last To See Life As It Really Is And There Is No Use Crying Over Spilt Milk.

If There's One Word That Sums Up Everything That's Gone Wrong Since The War, It's Workshop. After Youth, That Is.

I Was Never An Angry Young Man. I Am Angry Only When I Hit My Thumb With A Hammer.

Education Is One Thing And Instruction, However Worthy, Necessary And Incidentally Or Monetarily Educative, Another.

The World That Seemed So Various And New, Well, It Does Contract. One's Burning Desire To Investigate Human Behavior, And To Make, Or Imply, Statements About It, Does Fall Off. And So One Does Find That Early Works Are Full Of Energy And Also Full Of Vulgarity, Crudity, And Incompetence, And Later Works Are More Carefully Finished, And In That Sense Better Literary Products. But . . . There's Often A Freshness That Is Missing In Later Works--for Every Gain There's A Loss. I Think It Evens Out In That Way.