I Would Like To Carve My Novel

Trotsky Rises To Give Me His Hand, Then Sits At His Desk, Gently Allowing His Regard To Light On My Person.

It Was Night And I Could See A Large And Calm Lake, Reflecting The Moon. Black Mountains Rose Around It. I Arrived From Between Two Of These Mountains, I Looked At The Lake And The Moon, And That Was It, Nothing Else Happened.

One Of Them, For Example, Which Will Probably Haunt Me More Than Any Other Is The Problem Of Communication.

The Lake And The Mountains Have Become My Landscape, My Real World.

I Have Made Love To Ten Thousand Women.