A Writer Survives In Spite Of His

An Uncertain Evil Causes Anxiety Because, At The Bottom Of One's Heart, One Goes On Hoping Till The Last Moment That It May Not Be True; A Certain Evil, On The Other Hand, Instills, For A Time, A Kind Of Dreary Tranquillity.

Because The World To-day Is So Constructed That No One Can Do What He Would Like To Do, And He Is Forced, Instead, To Do What Others Wish Him To Do. Because The Question Of Money Always Intrudes—into What We Do, Into What We Are, Into What We Wish To Become, Into Our Work, Into Our Highest Aspirations, Even Into Our Relations With The People We Love!

Dictatorships Are One-way Streets. Democracy Boasts Two-way Traffic.

Yes, One Uses What One Knows, But Autobiography Means Something Else. I Should Never Be Able To Write A Real Autobiography; I Always End By Falsifying And Fictionalizing—i’m A Liar, In Fact. That Means I’m A Novelist, After All. I Write About What I Know.

And We All Know Love Is A Glass Which Makes Even A Monster Appear Fascinating.