The Rumble Of The Life Outside Was

All Of Writing Is A Huge Lake. There Are Great Rivers That Feed The Lake, Like Tolstoy Or Dostoyevsky. And Then There Are Mere Trickles, Like Jean Rhys. All That Matters Is Feeding The Lake. I Don't Matter. The Lake Matters. You Must Keep Feeding The Lake.

Everything Tender And Melancholy - As Life Is Sometimes, Just For One Moment.

The Woman Had A Humble, Cringing Manner. Of Course, She Had Discovered That, Having Neither Money Nor Virtue, She Had Better Be Humble If She Knew What Was Good For Her.

Cold - Cold As Truth, Cold As Life. No, Nothing Can Be As Cold As Life.

And Then The Days Came When I Was Alone.