The Other Writer Who Had A Very

Ecstasy And Vulnerability Belonged In The Same Dish. The Fear The Cup Would Be Snatched Away Was What Gave The Wine Its Savor.

I'm Not Very Good At Being Alive. Sometimes I Despair Of Ever Mastering It, Getting It Right. When I'm Old, Perhaps.

It's Very Selfish When I Write. I'm Not Aware, Ever, Of Writing For Another Person; I'm Not Even Really Aware Of Writing For Myself.

Whatever The Hell I Am, I Am Me.

I Submitted Manuscripts To Publishers. This Was Not So Much A Feeling That I Should Be Published As A Wish To Escape The Feared And Hated Drudgery Of Normal Work.