Introspection Is A Devouring Monster.

I’m Restless. Things Are Calling Me Away. My Hair Is Being Pulled By The Stars Again.

We Must Protect The Minority Writers Because They Are The Research Workers Of Literature. They Keep It Alive. It Has Been Fashionable Of Late To Seek Out And Force Such Writers Into More Popular Channels, To The Detriment Of Both Writer And An Unprepared Public.

In My Childhood Diary I Wrote: “i Have Decided That It Is Better Not To Love Anyone, Because When You Love People, Then You Have To Be Separated From Them, And That Hurts Too Much.

Asia Discovered Two Remedies For The Cruelty Of Man, Art And Religion. America Discarded Both And Is Drowning In Hate And Aggressivity.

Ordinary Life Does Not Interest Me. I Seek Only The High Moments. I Am In Accord With The Surrealists, Searching For The Marvelous. I Want To Be A Writer Who Reminds Others That These Moments Exist; I Want To Prove That There Is Infinite Space, Infinite Meaning, Infinite Dimension. But I Am Not Always In What I Call A State Of Grace. I Have Days Of Illuminations And Fevers. I Have Days When The Music In My Head Stops. Then I Mend Socks, Prune Trees, Can Fruits, Polish Furniture. But While I Am Doing This I Feel I Am Not Living.