I Passed By The Brothel As Though

I Am Always Trying To Convey Something That Can’t Be Conveyed, To Explain Something Which Is Inexplicable, To Tell About Something I Have In My Bones, Something Which Can Be Expressed Only In The Bones.

My Job Is Unbearable To Me Because It Conflicts With My Only Desire And My Only Calling, Which Is Literature. Since I Am Nothing But Literature And Can And Want To Be Nothing Else, My Job Will Never Take Possession Of Me, It May, However, Shatter Me Completely, And This Is By No Means A Remote Possibility.

There Will Be No Proof That I Ever Was A Writer.

The Man In Ecstasy And The Man Drowning: Both Raise Their Arms.

Sometimes I Think I Can Expiate All My Past And Future Sins Through The Aching Of My Bones.