Everyone Ends Up Moving Alone Towards The

As Writers, We Are Exploring The Mystery, The Mystery Of Existence.

Disaster Is Private, In Its Way, As Love Is.

Everyone Ends Up Moving Alone Towards The Self

Perhaps There Is No Other Way Of Reaching Some Understanding Of Being Than Through Art? Writers Themselves Don't Analyze What They Do; To Analyze Would Be To Look Down While Crossing A Canyon On A Tightrope. To Say This Is Not To Mystify The Process Of Writing But To Make An Image Out Of The Intense Inner Concentration The Writer Must Have To Cross The Chasms Of The Aleatory And Make Them The Word's Own, As An Explorer Plants A Flag.

I Have Failed At Many Things, But I Have Never Been Afraid.