The Writer By Nature Of His Profession

People, Unless They Are Nilly-willy Or Very Sick, Cannot Be Taken Into The Hands And Be Changed Overnight Into Somthing More Worth-while And Profitable.

This Was Her, Mick Kelly, Walking In The Daytime And By Herself At Night. In The Hot Sun And In The Dark With All The Plans And Feelings. This Music Was Her—the Real Plain Her...this Music Did Not Take A Long Time Or A Short Time. It Did Not Have Anything To Do With Time Going By At All. She Sat With Her Arms Around Her Legs, Biting Her Salty Knee Very Hard. The Whole World Was This Symphony, And There Was Not Enough Of Her To Listen... Now That It Was Over There Was Only Her Heart Beating Like A Rabbit And This Terrible Hurt.

A Writer Soon Discovers He Has No Single Identity But Lives The Lives Of All The People He Creates And His Weathers Are Independent Of The Actual Day Around Him. I Live With The People I Create And It Has Always Made My Essential Loneliness Less Keen.

All We Can Do Is Go Around Telling The Truth.

I Must Go Home Periodically To Renew My Sense Of Horror.