Dogs Are A Habit, I Think.

Memory Must Be Patchy; What Is More Alarming Is Its Face-savingness. Something In One Shrinks From Catching It Out - Unique To Oneself, One's Own, One's Claim To Identity, It Implicates One's Identity In Its Fibbing.

... Artists Were Intended To Be An Ornament To Society. As A Society In Themselves They Are Unthinkable.

... Any Fictionis Bound To Be Transposed Autobiography.

Writers Do Not Find Subjects: Subjects Find Them. There Is Not So Much A Search As A State Of Open Susceptibility.

Fashion Seems To Exist For An Abstract Person Who Is Not You Or Me.