The Writer Must Hew The Phantom Rock.

The World Is Certainty A Sudden Place.

The Way I Need You Is A Loneliness I Cannot Bear.

His Own Life Seemed So Solitary, A Fragile Column Supporting Nothing Amidst The Wreckage Of The Years.

I See A Green Tree. And To Me It Is Green. And You Would Call The Tree Green Also. And We Would Agree On This. But Is The Colour You See As Green The Same Colour I See As Green?

This Fear Is One Of The Horrors Of An Author's Life. Where Does Work Come From? What Chance, What Small Episode Will Start The Chain Of Creation? I Once Wrote A Story About A Writer Who Could Not Write Anymore, And My Friend Tennessee Williams Said, 'how Could You Dare Write That Story, It's The Most Frightening Work I Have Ever Read.' I Was Pretty Well Sunk While I Was Writing It.