I Am Empty Of Everything. I Am

Blot Out The Moon, Pull Down The Stars. Love In The Dark, For We're For The Dark So Soon, So Soon.

When I Think About It, If I Had To Choose, I'd Rather Be Happy Than Write.

Some Must Cry So That Others May Be Able To Laugh The More Heartily. Sacrifices Are Necessary.

The Perpetual Hunger To Be Beautiful And That Thirst To Be Loved Which Is The Real Curse Of Eve.

All Of Writing Is A Huge Lake. There Are Great Rivers That Feed The Lake, Like Tolstoy Or Dostoyevsky. And Then There Are Mere Trickles, Like Jean Rhys. All That Matters Is Feeding The Lake. I Don't Matter. The Lake Matters. You Must Keep Feeding The Lake.