There Is No Other Way Of Writing

The Fools Ran After Me And I Ran After The Whores, Foolish Though I Realized Such A Proceeding To Be.

I Thank God Daily For The Good Fortune Of My Birth, For I Am Certain I Would Have Made A Miserable Peasant.

Everything Was In Stark And Dreadful Contrast With The Trivial Crises And Counterfeit Emotions Of Hollywood, And I Returned To England Deeply Moved And Emotionally Worn Out.

I Have Heard Of Novels Started In The Middle, At The End, Written In Patches To Be Joined Together Later, But I Have Never Felt The Slightest Desire To Do This.

Novel Writing Wrecks Homes.