I Eat My Heart Out Alone.

The Existence Of The Writer Is To Write, And To Write Is To Tell The Truth.

Art Is No Longer Snobbish Or Cowardly. It Teaches Peasants To Use Tractors, Gives Lyrics To Young Soldiers, Designs Textiles For Factory Women's Dresses, Writes Burlesque For Factory Theatres, Does A Hundred Other Useful Tasks. Art Is As Usueful As Bread.

Memories Have Ways Of Becoming Independent Of The Reality They Evoke. They Can Soften Us Against Those We Were Deeply Hurt By Or They Can Make Us Resent Those We Once Accepted And Loved Unconditionally.

I See People Who Talk About America, And Then Undermine It By Not Paying Attention To Its Soul, To Its Poetry. I See Polarization, Reductionism And Superficiality.

When I Walked Down The Streets, I Asked Myself, Are These My People?, Is This My Hometown, Am I Who I Am?