If All Good, Respectable People Had One

I Have Arranged My Little Life.

Have All Beautiful Things Sad Destinies?

Love Was A Terrible Thing. You Poisoned It And Stabbed At It And Knocked It Down Into The Mud - Well Down - And It Got Up And Staggered On, Bleeding And Muddy And Awful. Like - Like Rasputin.

London Is Like A Cold Dark Dream Sometimes.

All Of Writing Is A Huge Lake. There Are Great Rivers That Feed The Lake, Like Tolstoy Or Dostoyevsky. And Then There Are Mere Trickles, Like Jean Rhys. All That Matters Is Feeding The Lake. I Don't Matter. The Lake Matters. You Must Keep Feeding The Lake.