It Is A Great Danger For Everyone

At One With The One, It Didn't Mean A Thing Besides A Glass Of Guinness On A Sunny Day.

A Man Kept His Character Even When He Was Insane.

How Often The Priest Had Heard The Same Confession--man Was So Limited: He Hadn't Even The Ingenuity To Invent A New Vice: The Animals Knew As Much. It Was For This World That Christ Had Died: The More Evil You Saw And Heard About You, The Greater The Glory Lay Around The Death; It Was Too Easy To Die For What Was Good Or Beautiful, For Home Or Children Or Civilization--it Needed A God To Die For The Half-hearted And The Corrupt.

So Much In Writing Depends On The Superficiality Of One's Days. One May Be Preoccupied With Shopping And Income Tax Returns And Chance Conversations, But The Stream Of The Unconscious Continues To Flow Undisturbed, Solving Problems, Planning Ahead: One Sits Down Sterile And Dispirited At The Desk, And Suddenly The Words Come As Though From The Air: The Situations That Seemed Blocked In A Hopeless Impasse Move Forward: The Work Has Been Done While One Slept Or Shopped Or Talked With Friends.

My Two Fingers On A Typewriter Have Never Connected With My Brain. My Hand On A Pen Does. A Fountain Pen, Of Course. Ball-point Pens Are Only Good For Filling Out Forms On A Plane.