Would You Like A Whiskey?' I Say.

All Of Writing Is A Huge Lake. There Are Great Rivers That Feed The Lake, Like Tolstoy Or Dostoyevsky. And Then There Are Mere Trickles, Like Jean Rhys. All That Matters Is Feeding The Lake. I Don't Matter. The Lake Matters. You Must Keep Feeding The Lake.

Have All Beautiful Things Sad Destinies?

Yes, I Am Sad, Sad As A Circus-lioness, Sad As An Eagle Without Wings, Sad As A Violin With Only One String And That One Broken, Sad As A Woman Who Is Growing Old. Sad, Sad, Sad.

I Took The Red Dress Down And Put It Against Myself. 'does It Make Me Look Intemperate And Unchaste?' I Said.

One Realized All Sorts Of Things. The Value Of An Illusion, For Instance, And That The Shadow Can Be More Important Than The Substance. All Sorts Of Things.