I Think I Write Or Publish As

People Were Standing Up Everywhere Shouting, "this Is Me! This Is Me!" Every Time You Looked At Them They Stood Up And Told You Who They Were, And The Truth Of It Was That They Had No More Idea Who Or What They Were Than He Had. They Believed Their Flashing Signs, Too. They Ought To Be Standing Up And Shouting, "this Isn't Me! This Isn't Me!" They Would If They Had Any Decency. "this Isn't Me!" Then You Might Know How To Proceed Through The Flashing Bullshit Of This World.

When You Publish A Book, It's The World's Book. The World Edits It.

I Came To New York And In Only Hours, New York Did What It Does To People: Awakened The Possibilities. Hope Breaks Out.

Dreams? If Only They Had Been! But I Don't Need Dreams, Doctor, That's Why I Hardly Have Them—because I Have This Life Instead. With Me It All Happens In Broad Daylight!

Everybody Has A Hard Job. All Real Work Is Hard. My Work Happened Also To Be Undoable. Morning After Morning For 50 Years, I Faced The Next Page Defenseless And Unprepared. Writing For Me Was A Feat Of Self-preservation. If I Did Not Do It, I Would Die. So I Did It. Obstinacy, Not Talent, Saved My Life.