Just Like Those Who Are Incurably Ill,

Actually We Did Not Have The Feelings We Said We Had Until We Spoke Them--at Least I Didn't; To Phrase Them Was To Invent Them And Own Them.

I Don't Wish To Be A Slave Any Longer To The Stringent Exigencies Of Literature.

Everybody Has A Hard Job. All Real Work Is Hard. My Work Happened Also To Be Undoable. Morning After Morning For 50 Years, I Faced The Next Page Defenseless And Unprepared. Writing For Me Was A Feat Of Self-preservation. If I Did Not Do It, I Would Die. So I Did It. Obstinacy, Not Talent, Saved My Life.

Doctor, I Had Never Had Anybody Like Her In My Life, She Was The Fulfillment Of My Most Lascivious Adolescent Dreams– But Marry Her, Can She Be Serious? You See, For All Her Preening And Perfumes, She Has A Very Low Opinion Of Herself, And Simultaneously– And Here Is The Source Of Much Of Our Trouble-a Ridiculously High Opinion Of Me. And Simultaneously, A Very Low Opinion Of Me! She Is One Confused Monkey, And, I'm Afraid, Not Too Very Bright.

Nothing Bad Can Happen To A Writer. Everything Is Material.