With All This Darkness Round Me I

Humbly To Ask A Favour Of People Who Are On The Point Of Knocking Your Brains Out Sometimes Produces Good Results.

Love, That Is All I Asked, A Little Love, Daily, Twice Daily, Fifty Years Of Twice Daily Love Like A Paris Horse-butcher's Regular, What Normal Woman Wants Affection?

James Joyce: His Writing Is Not About Something. It Is The Thing Itself.

To Be An Artist Is To Fail, As No Other Dare Fail, That Failure Is His World And The Shrink From Desertion, Art And Craft, Good Housekeeping, Living.

I Have Always Been Amazed At My Contemporaries’ Lack Of Finesse, I Whose Soul Writhed From Morning To Night, In The Mere Quest Of Itself.