It Is Not My Fault That Certain

Down In Denver, All I Did Was Die.

I Suddenly Began To Realize That Everybody In America Is A Natural-born Thief.

But There's No Joy At All, People Say "oh Well He's Drunk And Happy Let Him Sleep It Off"--the Poor Drunkard Is *crying*--he's Crying For His Mother And Father And Great Brother And Great Friend, He's Crying For Help. (p.111)

It Made Me Think That Everything Was About To Arrive - The Moment When You Know All And Everything Is Decided Forever.

You Don't Realize What A Strain It Is On The Nerves To Write Or Think-of-writing All Day Long, And To Sleep Full Of Nervous Dreams, And To Wake Up Not Knowing Who One Is: This All Stems From Anxiety About Finishing The Book, About Time 'growing Short', Etc., And The Perpetual Strain Of Invention.