The Room I Wrote In 1957, And

Sometimes You Feel You Have The Truth Of A Moment In Your Hand, Then It Slips Through Your Fingers And Is Lost.

I Think We Communicate Only Too Well, In Our Silence, In What Is Unsaid, And That What Takes Place Is A Continual Evasion, Desperate Rearguard Attempts To Keep Ourselves To Ourselves. Communication Is Too Alarming. To Enter Into Someone Else's Life Is Too Frightening. To Disclose To Others The Poverty Within Us Is Too Fearsome A Possibility.

I Sometimes Wish Desperately That I Could Write Like Someone Else, Be Someone Else. No One Particularly. Just If I Could Put The Pen Down On Paper And Suddenly Come Out In A Totally Different Way.

Isn't It True That Every Aristocrat Wants To Die?

I'll Tell You What I Really Think About Politicians. The Other Night I Watched Some Politicians On Television Talking About Vietnam. I Wanted Very Much To Burst Through The Screen With A Flame Thrower And Burn Their Eyes Out And Their Balls Off And Then Inquire From Them How They Would Assess The Action From A Political Point Of View.