Put It Off For A Bit. All

The Essence Of Pop Stardom Is Immaturity - A Wretched Little Pseudo-musical Gift, A Development Of The Capacity To Shock, A Short-lived Notoriety, Extreme Depression, A Yielding To The Suicidal Impulse.

Eat This Sweetish Segment Or Spit It Out. You Are Free.

Welly, Welly, Welly, Welly, Welly, Welly, Well. To What Do I Owe The Extreme Pleasure Of This Surprising Visit?

When A Man Cannot Chose, He Ceases To Be A Man.

One Goes On Writing Partly Because It Is The Only Available Way Of Earning A Living. It Is A Hard Way And Highly Competitive. My Heart Drops Into My Bowels When I Enter A Bookshop And See How Fierce The Competition Is...there Is Also A Privier Reason For Pushing On, And That Is The Hopeless Hope That Someday That Intractable Enemy Language Will Yield To The Struggle To Control It... Mastery Never Comes, And One Serves A Lifelong Apprenticeship. The Writer Cannot Retire From The Battle; He Dies Fighting.