I Came To New York And In

Nothing Bad Can Happen To A Writer. Everything Is Material.

The Secret To Living In The Rush Of The World With A Minimum Of Pain Is To Get As Many People As Possible To String Along With Your Delusions.

What I Have In Mind When I Start To Write Could Fit Inside An Acorn-an Acorn, Moreover, That Rarely If Ever Grows Into An Oak. Write Fiction And You Relinquish Reason. You Start With An Acorn And You End Up With A Mackerel.

You Take Off Your Clothes And You're In Bed With Somebody, And That Is Indeed Where Whatever You've Concealed, Your Particularity, Whatever It May Be, However Encrypted, Is Going To Be Found Out, And That's What All The Shyness Is All About And What Everybody Fears.

You Be Greater Than Your Feelings. I Don't Demand This Of You - Life Does. Otherwise You'll Be Washed Away By Feelings. You'll Be Washed Out To Sea And Never Seen Again.