We Are All Looking For Something Of

Good Men Make Good Rhinoceroses, Unfortunately.

I Have No Other Pictures Of The World Apart From Those Which Express Evanescence, And Callousness, Vanity And Anger, Emptiness, Orhideous Useless Hate. Everything Has Merely Confirmed What I Had Seen And Understood In My Childhood: Futile And Sordid Fits Of Rage, Cries Suddenly Blanketed By The Silence, Shadows Swallowed Up For Ever By The Night.

I Still Forget, Sometimes, That I Am No Longer 12 Years Old.

Only The Ephemeral Is Of Lasting Value.

A Writer Never Has A Vacation. For A Writer, Life Consists Of Either Writing Or Thinking About Writing.