Life Is Weather. Life Is Meals.

My Idea Of Writing Is Of Unflinching And Continual Effort, Somehow Trying To Find The Right Words Until You Reach A Point Where You Can Make No Further Progress And You Either Have Something Or You Don’t.

To Write? Because All This Is Going To Vanish. The Only Thing Left Will Be The Prose And Poems, The Books, What Is Written Down. Man Was Very Fortunate To Have Invented The Book. Without It The Past Would Completely Vanish, And We Would Be Left With Nothing, We Would Be Naked On Earth.

I Like Men Who Have Known The Best And The Worst, Whose Life Has Been Anything But A Smooth Trip. Storms Have Battered Them, They Have Lain, Sometimes For Months On End, Becalmed. There Is A Residue Even If They Fail. It Has Not Been All Tinkling; There Have Been Grand Chords.

But Knowledge Does Not Protect One. Life Is Contemptuous Of Knowledge; It Forces It To Sit In The Anterooms, To Wait Outside. Passion, Energy, Lies: These Are What Life Admires. Still, Anything Can Be Endured If All Humanity Is Watching. The Martyrs Prove It. We Live In The Attention Of Others. We Turn To It As Flowers To The Sun.

You Are Perfectly Entitled To Invent Your Life And To Claim That It's True.