Now Working Is Terribly Painful And I'm

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.

The Constants That I Look For Are A Love Of Light And A Determination To Trace Some Moral Chain Of Being.

The World That Was Not Mine Yesterday Now Lies Spread Out At My Feet, A Splendor. I Seem, In The Middle Of The Night, To Have Returned To The World Of Apples, The Orchards Of Heaven. Perhaps I Should Take My Problems To A Shrink, Or Perhaps I Should Enjoy The Apples That I Have, Streaked With Color Like The Evening Sky.

Literature Has Been The Salvation Of The Damned, Literature Has Inspired And Guided Lovers, Routed Despair And Can Perhaps In This Case Save The World.

There Isn't A King Or A Merchant Prince In The Whole World That I Envy, For I Always Knew I Was Born To Be A Child Of Destiny And That I Was Never Meant To Wring My Living From Detestable, Low, Degrading, Mean And Ordinary Kinds Of Business.