Character Is Fate.

My Wanting To Write Books Annihilates The Original Root Impulse That Would Have Me Bravely And Blunderingly Working On Them.

I Am Afraid. I Am Not Solid, But Hollow. I Feel Behind My Eyes A Numb, Paralyzed Cavern, A Pit Of Hell, A Mimicking Nothingness.

I Never Feel So Much Myself As When I'm In A Hot Bath.

Compared With Me, A Tree Is Immortal.

I Keep Wanting To Crawl Back Into The Womb.