My One Regret In Life Is That

I Think Being Funny Is Not Anyone's First Choice.

Chastity Is Curable, If Detected Early.

I've Inherited The Worst Of Each Parent. I Have My Father's Hypochondria And Lack Of Concentration. I Have His Amorality. I Have Everything Bad That He Had. Then I Have My Mother's Surly, Pill-like, Complaining, Whining Attitude.

I Loathed Every Day And Regret Every Day I Spent In School. I Like To Be Taught To Read And Write And Add And Then Be Left Alone.

That’s One Of The Nice Things About Writing, Or Any Art; If The Thing’s Real, It Just Lives. All The Attendant Hoopla About It, The Success Over It Or The Critical Rejection—none Of That Really Matters. In The End, The Thing Will Survive Or Not On Its Own Merits. Not That Immortality Via Art Is Any Big Deal. Truffaut Died, And We All Felt Awful About It, And There Were The Appropriate Eulogies, And His Wonderful Films Live On. But It’s Not Much Help To Truffaut.