But Family Life Sometimes Had A Vortex,

I Often Think That At The Center Of Me Is A Voice That At Last Did Split, A House In My Heart So Invaded With Other People And Their Speech, Friends I Believed I Was Devoted To, People Whose Lives I Can Simply Guess At Now, That It Gives Me The Impression I Am Simply A Collection Of Them, That They All Existed For Themselves, But Had Inadvertently Formed Me, Then Vanished. But, What: Should I Have Been Expected To Create My Own Self, Out Of Nothing, Out Of Thin, Thin Air And Alone?

I Do Have People In Mind When I Write. I Don't Know Precisely Who They Are, However, Or How Many Of Them There Are.

A Funny Line Can Never Exist On Its Own. It Needs To Be Surrounded By Mood And Circumstances.

There Was The Usual Dreaminess, I Suppose. Also A Shyness That Caused Me - And Others - To Notice That I Could Express Myself Better By Writing Than By Speaking. This Is Typical Of Many Writers, I Think. What Is A Drawback In Childhood Is An Asset To A Literary Life. Not Being Fluent On One’s Feet Sends One To The Page And A Habit Is Born.

I Feared Sarah Was One Of Those Women Who Instead Of Laughing Said, "that's Funny," Or Instead Of Smiling Said, "that's Interesting," Or Instead Of Saying, "you Are A Stupid Blithering Idiot," Said, "well I Think It's A Little More Complicated Than That.