They Looked Down On Her; And She

The Bowed Head, The Buried Face. She Is Silent, She Will Never Speak, Never Forgive, Never Reach A Hand, Never Leave This Frozen Present Tense. All Waits, Suspended. Suspended The Autumn Trees, The Autumn Sky, Anonymous People. A Blackbird, Poor Fool, Sings Out Of Season From The Willows By The Lake. A Flight Of Pigeons Over The Houses; Fragments Of Freedom, Hazard, An Anagram Made Flesh. And Somewhere The Stinging Smell Of Burning Leaves.

On The Whole, Dialogue Is The Most Difficult Thing, Without Any Doubt. It's Very Difficult, Unfortunately. You Have To Detach Yourself From The Notion Of A Lifelike Quality. You See, Actually Lifelike, Tape-recorded Dialogue Like This Has Very Little To Do With Good Novel Dialogue. It's A Matter Of Getting That Awful Tyranny Of Mimesis Out Of Your Mind, Which Is Difficult.

In Some Mysterious Way Woods Have Never Seemed To Me To Be Static Things. In Physical Terms, I Move Through Them; Yet In Metaphysical Ones, They Seem To Move Through Me.

Art Is A Statement Of One In The Face Of All; Not A Statement By One For The Use Of All.

That Is The Great Distinction Between The Sexes. Men See Objects, Women Seetherelationship Between Objects? It Is An Extra Dimension Of Feeling Which We Men Are Without And One That Makes War Abhorrent To All Real Women?and Absurd.