The Writer Is By Nature A Dreamer

Wherever You Look There’s Meanness And Corruption. This Room, This Bottle Of Grape Wine, These Fruits In The Basket, Are All Products Of Profit And Loss. A Fellow Can’t Live Without Giving His Passive Acceptance To Meanness. Somebody Wears His Tail To A Frazzle For Every Mouthful We Eat And Every Stitch We Wear—and Nobody Seems To Know. Everybody Is Blind, Dumb, And Blunt-headed—stupid And Mean.

Day And Night She Had Drudged And Struggled And Thrown Her Soul Into Her Work, And There Was Not Much Of Her Left Over For Anything Else. Being Human, She Suffered From This Lack And Did What She Could To Make Up For It. If She Passed The Evening Bent Over A Table In The Library And Later Declared That She Had Spent That Time Playing Cards, It Was As Though She Had Managed To Do Both Those Things. Through The Lies, She Lived Vicariously. The Lies Doubled The Little Of Her Existence That Was Left Over From Work And Augmented The Little Rag End Of Her Personal Life.

All Men Are Lonely. But Sometimes It Seems To Me That We Americans Are The Loneliest Of All. Our Hunger For Foreign Places And New Ways Has Been With Us Almost Like A National Disease. Our Literature Is Stamped With A Quality Of Longing And Unrest, And Our Writers Have Been Great Wanderers.

The Writer By Nature Of His Profession Is A Dreamer And A Conscious Dreamer. He Must Imagine, And Imagination Takes Humility, Love And Great Courage. How Can You Create A Character Without Live And The Struggle That Goes With Love?

Love Is The Main Generator Of All Good Writing... Love, Passion, Compassion, Are All Welded Together.