Humans, The Only Self-regarding Animals, Blessed Or

If I Dreamt This, While Walking, Walking In The London Streets, The Subconscious Of Each And Every Other Life, Past And Present, Brushing Me In Passing, What Makes It Real? Writing It Down.

Literature Is One Of The Few Areas Left Where Black And White Feel Some Identity Of Purpose; We All Struggle Under Censorship.

One Can't Measure How A Mood Of Confidence Comes About.

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.

Keenness Of Hearing Revives When One Is Alone.