Any Man Who Knocks On The Door

It Was Like Having A Box Of Chocolates Shut In The Bedroom Drawer. Until The Box Was Empty It Occupied The Mind Too Much.

Pain Is Easy To Write. In Pain We're All Happily Individual. But What Can One Write About Happiness?

A Petty Reason Perhaps Why Novelists More And More Try To Keep A Distance From Journalists Is That Novelists Are Trying To Write The Truth And Journalists Are Trying To Write Fiction.

For God's Sake Stop Making People In Your Image. Harry Was Real. He Wasn't Just Your Hero And My Lover. He Was Harry. He Was In A Racket. He Did Bad Things. What About It? He Was The Man We Knew.

And There, In That Phrase, The Bitterness Leaks Again Out Of My Pen. What A Dull Lifeless Quality This Bitterness Is. If I Could I Would Write With Love, But If I Could Write With Love I Would Be Another Man; I Would Never Have Lost Love.