Goodnight Sweet Prince, May Flights Of Devils

I Am An Unwilling Devil. I Cry Like Some Vagrant Child. I Want To Go Home.

I'm Speaking Of The Character Of Human Beings, Not What They Believe In. I'm Speaking Of Those Who Won't Accept A Useless Life Just Because They Were Born To It. I Mean Those Who Would Be Something Better. They Work, They Sacrifice, They Do Things..." He Was Moved By This, And I Was A Little Surprised That I'd Said It. Yet I Felt I'd Had Hurt Him Somehow. "there Is Blessedness In That." I Said. "there's Sanctity. And God Or No God, There Is Goodness In It. I Know This The Way I Know The Mountains Are Out There, That The Stars Shine.

Aren't There Gradations Of Evil? Is Evil A Great Perilous Gulf Into Which One Falls With The First Sin, Plummeting To The Depth?

What Does All This Mean Finally, I Kept Asking Like A College Kid. Why Does It Make Me Want To Cry? Maybe It’s That We Are All Outsiders, We Are All Making Our Own Unusual Way Through A Wilderness Of Normality That Is Just A Myth.

Yes. To Write A Novel Is To Risk My Sanity. The Deeper I Get Into The Suffering And Conflict Of The Characters, Into The Very Situations And Thoughts And Feelings That Make The Novel Worthwhile, The Worse I Feel, And The More Likely I Am To Be Severely Depressed When The Book Is Finished. There Is No Avoiding This: It Is The Result Of Attempting To Tell All You Know, To Reach For The Stars, To Write What Matters.