Love With Its Paraphernalia Of Sexuality, Jealousy,

At My Back I Hear The Word-"homosexual"-and It Seems To Split My World In Two.... It Is Ignorance, Our Ignorance Of One Another, That Creates This Terrifying Erotic Chaos. Information, A Crumb Of Information, Seems To Light The World.

I Do Not Understand The Capricious Lewdness Of The Sleeping Mind.

You Can't Expect To Communicate With Anyone If You're A Bore.

To Disguise Nothing, To Conceal Nothing, To Write About Those Things That Are Closest To Our Pain, Our Happiness; To Write About Our Sexual Clumsiness, The Agonies Of Tantalus, The Depth Of Our Discouragement-what We Glimpse In Our Dreams-our Despair. To Write About The Foolish Agonies Of Anxiety, The Refreshment Of Our Strength When These Are Ended; To Write About Our Painful Search For Self, Jeopardized By A Stranger In The Post Office, A Half-seen Face In A Train Window, To Write About The Continents And Populations Of Our Dreams, About Love And Death, Good And Evil, The End Of The World.

These Stories Seem At Times To Be Stories Of A Long-lost World When The City Of New York Was Still Filled With A River Light, When You Heard The Benny Goodman Quartets From A Radio In The Corner Stationery Store, And When Almost Everybody Wore A Hat.