My Former Wife Is A Very Eccentric

You Have Friends Who Actually Care About You And Speak The Language Of The Inner Self. You Have Avoided Them Of Late. Your Soul Is As Disheveled As Your Apartment, And Until You Can Clean It Up A Little You Don't Want To Invite Anyone Inside.

You Keep Thinking That With Practice You Will Eventually Get The Knack Of Enjoying Superficial Encounters, That You Will Stop Looking For The Universal Solvent, Stop Grieving. You Will Learn To Compound Happiness Out Of Small Increments Of Mindless Pleasure.

I Envy Those Writers Who Outline Their Novels, Who Know Where They're Going. But I Find Writing Is A Process Of Discovery.

I'm Afraid That - Not Necessarily Deliberately, But Consistently - I've Made A Kind Of Laboratory Out Of My Life, Where I Mix The Stuff In The Test Tubes To Create Explosions - Possibly Resulting In Interesting By-products. I Mean, Not Deliberately - I'd Be Crazy To Deliberately Do That - Or Maybe Not.

There Is A Shabby Nobility In Failing All By Yourself.