I Am Like A Snake Who Has

Jazz Is The Music Of The Body.

I Only Regret That Everybody Wants To Deprive Me Of The Journal, Which Is The Only Steadfast Friend I Have, The Only One Which Makes My Life Bearable, Because My Happiness With Human Beings Is So Precarious, My Confiding Moods Rare, And The Least Sign Of Non-interest Is Enough To Silence Me. In The Journal I Am At Ease.

New York Seems Conducted By Jazz, Animated By It. It Is Essentially A City Of Rhythm.

I Seek The Real Stuff Of Life. Profound Drama.

I Despise My Own Hypersensitiveness, Which Requires So Much Reassurance. It Is Certainly Abnormal To Crave So Much To Be Loved And Understood.