Two-thirds Of My Energies Go In Trying

There Has Been A Marvelous Joyous Carnival Of Mourning For Edith Piaf And Jean Coctaeau, And It Was Real! They Died As They Had Lived, With Style And Grace And Their Proper Eccentricity; And Paris Loves Anybody Who Can Live Anarchically And Be Delightful Entertainment At The Same Time. So Do I.

Writing, In Any Sense That Matters, Cannot Be Taught. It Can Only Be Learned By Each Separate One Of Us In His Own Way, By The Use Of His Own Powers Of Imagination And Perception, The Ability To Learn The Lessons He Has Set For Himself.

You Can't Write About People Out Of Textbooks, And You Can't Use Jargon. You Have To Speak Clearly And Simply And Purely In A Language That A Six-year-old Child Can Understand; And Yet Have The Meanings And The Overtones Of Language, And The Implications, That Appeal To The Highest Intelligence.

I Think Joy Is Just As Instructive As Pain, And I Like It Better. I Never Meant To Suffer Any More Than I Could Help; My Nature Was Meant For Happiness, A Daylight Art And Living.

The Thing Is Not To Follow A Pattern. Follow Your Own Pattern Of Feeling And Thought. The Thing Is To Accept Your Own Life And Not Try To Live Someone Else's Life. Look, The Thumbprint Is Not Like Any Other, And The Thumbprint Is What You Must Go By.