I'm A Complete Democrat In Terms Of

You Get Towards The End Of Life - No, Not Life Itself, But Of Something Else: The End Of Any Likelihood Of Change In That Life. You Are Allowed A Long Moment Of Pause, Time Enough To Ask The Question: What Else Have I Done Wrong?

Everything In Art Depends On Execution: The Story Of A Louse Can Be As Beautiful As The Story Of Alexander. You Must Write According To Your Feelings, Be Sure Those Feelings Are True, And Let Everything Else Go Hang. When A Line Is Good It Ceases To Belong To Any School. A Line Of Prose Must Be As Immutable As A Line Of Poetry.

The Writer Has Little Control Over Personal Temperament, None Over Historical Moment, And Is Only Partly In Charge Of His Or Her Own Aesthetic.

I Have At Times Tried To Imagine The Despair Which Leads To Suicide, Attempted To Conjure Up The Slew And Slop Of Darkness In Which Only Death Appears As A Pinprick Of Light: In Other Words, The Exact Opposite Of The Normal Condition Of Life.

Life Is Like Invading Russia. A Blitz Start, Massed Shakos, Plumes Dancing Like A Flustered Henhouse; A Period Of Svelte Progress Recorded In Ebullient Despatches As The Enemy Falls Back; Then The Beginning Of A Long, Morale-sapping Trudge With Rations Getting Shorter And The First Snowflakes Upon Your Face. The Enemy Burns Moscow And You Yield To General January, Whose Fingernails Are Very Icicles. Bitter Retreat. Harrying Cossacks. Eventually You Fall Beneath A Boy-gunner's Grapeshot While Crossing Some Polish River Not Even Marked On Your General's Map.