In November You Begin To Know How

You Have To Stop Living In Order To Write.

Then Somebody Suggested I Should Write About The War, And I Said I Didn't Know Anything About The War. I Did Not Understand Anything About It. I Didn't See How I Could Write It

I Know Enough To Know That No Woman Should Ever Marry A Man Who Hated His Mother.

If I Practised Sex, Out Of Moral Conviction, That Was One Thing; But To Enjoy It... Seemed A Defeat.

I Do Not See Myself As A Footnote To Someone Else's Life.