I Was Like A Cat Always Climbing

Jesus Would Be Framed And In Jail If He Was Living Today.

Her Face Felt Like It Was Scattered In Pieces And She Could Not Keep It Straight. The Feeling Was A Whole Lot Worse Than Being Hungry For Any Dinner, Yet It Was Like That. I Want--i Want--i Want--was All That She Could Think About--but Just What This Real Want Was She Did No Know.

All Men Are Lonely. But Sometimes It Seems To Me That We Americans Are The Loneliest Of All. Our Hunger For Foreign Places And New Ways Has Been With Us Almost Like A National Disease. Our Literature Is Stamped With A Quality Of Longing And Unrest, And Our Writers Have Been Great Wanderers.

Doctors, By God; Washing Their Hands, Looking Out Windows, Fiddling With Dreadful Things While You Are Stretched Out On A Table Or Half Undressed On A Chair.

This Fear Is One Of The Horrors Of An Author's Life. Where Does Work Come From? What Chance, What Small Episode Will Start The Chain Of Creation? I Once Wrote A Story About A Writer Who Could Not Write Anymore, And My Friend Tennessee Williams Said, 'how Could You Dare Write That Story, It's The Most Frightening Work I Have Ever Read.' I Was Pretty Well Sunk While I Was Writing It.