And I Am In Retirement From Love.

Freud Thought That A Psychosis Was A Waking Dream, And That Poets Were Daydreamers Too, But I Wonder If The Reverse Is Not As Often True, And That Madness Is A Fiction Lived In Like A Rented House

Of Course There Is Enough To Stir Our Wonder Anywhere; There's Enough To Love, Anywhere, If One Is Strong Enough, If One Is Diligent Enough, If One Is Perceptive, Patient, Kind Enough -- Whatever It Takes.

It’s Not The Word Made Flesh We Want In Writing, In Poetry And Fiction, But The Flesh Made Word

I Am Firmly Of The Opinion That People Who Can’t Speak Have Nothing To Say. It’s One More Thing We Do To The Poor, The Deprived: Cut Out Their Tongues … Allow Them A Language As Lousy As Their Life

I Get Very Tense Working, So I Often Have To Get Up And Wander Around The House. It Is Very Bad On My Stomach. I Have To Be Mad To Be Working Well Anyway, And Then I Am Mad About The Way Things Are Going On The Page In Addition. My Ulcer Flourishes And I Have To Chew Lots Of Pills. When My Work Is Going Well, I Am Usually Sort Of Sick.