I Find The Public Passion For Justice

The First Person You Should Think Of Pleasing, In Writing A Book, Is Yourself. If You Can Amuse Yourself For The Length Of Time It Takes To Write A Book, The Publisher And The Readers Can And Will Come Later.

Then Carol Slipped Her Arm Under Her Neck, And All The Length Of Their Bodies Touched Fitting As If Something Had Prearranged It. Happiness Was Like A Green Vine Spreading Through Her, Stretching Fine Tendrils, Bearing Flowers Through Her Flesh. She Had A Vision Of A Pale White Flower, Shimmering As If Seen In Darkness, Or Through Water. Why Did People Talk Of Heaven, She Wondered

Every Man Is His Own Law Court And Punishes Himself Enough.

But There Was Not A Moment When She Did Not See Carol In Her Mind, And All She Saw, She Seemed To See Through Carol. That Evening, The Dark Flat Streets Of New York, The Tomorrow Of Work, The Milk Bottle Dropped And Broken In Her Sink, Became Unimportant. She Flung Herself On Her Bed And Drew A Line With A Pencil On A Piece Of Paper. And Another Line, Carefully, And Another. A World Was Born Around Her, Like A Bright Forest With A Million Shimmering Leaves.

My New Year’s Eve Toast: To All The Devils, Lusts, Passions, Greeds, Envies, Loves, Hates, Strange Desires, Enemies Ghostly And Real, The Army Of Memories, With Which I Do Battle — May They Never Give Me Peace. (new Year's Eve, 1947)