I Write Out Of Defiance.

One Day I Was Living Silently In A Personal Hell, Without Anyone To Tell What I Felt, Without Even Knowing That The Feelings I Had Were Possible To Have; And Then One Day I Was Not Living Like That At All. I Had Begun To See The Past Like This: There Is A Line; You Can Draw It Yourself, Or Sometimes It Gets Drawn For You; Either Way, There It Is, Your Past, A Collection Of People You Used To Be And Things You Used To Do. Your Past Is The Person You No Longer Are, The Situations You Are No Longer In.

The Truth We Have To Face About The World We Live In Is That It's Driven By Profit, And Contradictions And Doubts Are Not Profitable. They Yield Wisdom, But Wisdom Is Not Profitable. I Find Pleasure In Doubt, But Let's Face It, My Pleasure Is Not Very Profitable. To Me, The Truth Is That Things Mean Many Things At Once, And All Of Them Opposed To Each Other, And All Of Them True.

A Great Piece Of Literature Encompasses All That Is And All That Will Be.

I Didn't Think Of Myself As An Outsider Because Of My Race Because... Where I Grew Up I Was The Same Race As Almost Everyone Else... It Is True That I Noticed Things That No One Else Seemed To Notice. And I Think Only People Who Are Outsiders Do This.

I Would Be Lost Without The Feeling Of Antagonism That People Have Towards Me. I Write Out Of Defiance.