No One More Cynical Than An Idealist.

I Held Out My Book. It Was Precious To Me, As Were All The Things I'd Written; Even Where I Despised Their Inadequacy There Was Not One I Would Disown. Each Tore Its Way From My Entrails. Each Had Shortened My Life, Killed Me With Its Own Special Little Death.

When I Am Fascinated By Something, I Like To Play With It.

I Must Suppose That Reading Wonderful Writers May, Inadvertently, Teach An Avid Reader A Great Deal -- Not Only About Life And Other Matters, But About How To Write. Therefore Doubtless I Have Benefited From Frequent Immersions In The Glowing Genius Of Others. It Would Be Nice To Think So. (i Do Actually Think So). But To Improve My Skills Will Never Be The Prompting Force Of My Reading -- That's Just Literary Lust.

The Dictate Of The Light Says: Know Yourself And What You Are. The Dark Replies, By All Means, But Then Become Afraid.

Im Writing What Comes Into My Head, Or Through Me, Or From Somewhere Else, And It Is The Most Extraordinary, Exciting Thing. I Love It, And Im Very Greedy, And I Really Enjoy It!