Please Tell Me What Can I Do.

It's All Nonsense. It's Only Nonsense. I'm Not Afraid Of The Rain. I Am Not Afraid Of The Rain. Oh, Oh, God, I Wish I Wasn't.

Now A Writer Can Make Himself A Nice Career While He Is Alive By Espousing A Political Cause, Working For It, Making A Profession Of Believing In It, And If It Wins He Will Be Very Well Placed. All Politics Is A Matter Of Working Hard Without Reward, Or With A Living Wage For A Time, In The Hope Of Booty Later. A Man Can Be A Fascist Or A Communist And If His Outfit Gets In He Can Get To Be An Ambassador Or Have A Million Copies Of His Books Printed By The Government Or Any Of The Other Rewards The Boys Dream About.

Now Catherine Would Die. That Was What You Did. You Died. You Did Not Know What It Was About. You Never Had Time To Learn. They Threw You In And Told You The Rules And The First Time They Caught You Off Base They Killed You. Or They Killed You Gratuitously Like Aymo. Or Gave You The Syphilis Like Rinaldi. But They Killed You In The End. You Could Count On That. Stay Around And They Would Kill You.

There Is No Rule On How To Write.

My Working Habits Are Simple: Long Periods Of Thinking, Short Periods Of Writing.