The Trouble With Happiness Is That It

He Who Cries, 'what Do I Care About Universality? I Only Know What Is In Me,' Does Not Know Even That.

I Wanted To Use What I Was, To Be What I Was Born To Be - Not To Have A 'career', But To Be That Straightforward Obvious Unmistakable Animal, A Writer.

It Is Useless Either To Hate Or To Love Truth - But It Should Be Noticed.

Invention Despoils Observations, Insinuation Invalidates Memory. A Stewpot Of Bad Habits, All Of It - So That Imaginative Writers Wind Up, By And Large, A Shifty Crew, Sunk In Distortion, Misrepresentation, Illusion, Imposture, Fakery.

In Real Life Wishing, Divorced From Willing, Is Sterile And Begets Nothing.