It Is Not Man Who Is The

That Process By Which You Become A Writer Is A Pretty Lonely One. We Don't Have A Group Apprenticeship Like A Violinist Might Training For An Orchestra.

Something In Me Was Responding Now As The Audience Responded, Not In Fear, But In Some Human Way, To The Magic Of That Fragile Painted Set, The Mystery Of The Lighted World There.

Our Language Needs Endless Synonyms For Beautiful; The Eyes Could See What The Tongue Cannot Possibly Describe.

It Was As If This Night Were Only One Of Thousands Of Nights, World Without End, Night Curving Into Night To Make A Great Arching Line Of Which I Couldn’t See The End, A Night In Which I Roamed Alone Under Cold, Mindless Stars.

Maybe That's What Hell Is. You Go Mad. And All Your Demons Come And Get You Just As Fast As You Can Think Them Up.