Destruction After All Is A Form Of

A Story Has No Beginning Or End: Arbitrarily One Chooses That Moment Of Experience From Which To Look Back Or From Which To Look Ahead.

All The Emotions Have Something In Common. People Are Quite Aware Of The Sorrow There Always Is In Lust, But They Are Not So Aware Of The Lust There Is In Sorrow.

That Instinct For Human Character That Is Perhaps Inherent In An Imaginative Writer.

So Much In Writing Depends On The Superficiality Of One's Days. One May Be Preoccupied With Shopping And Income Tax Returns And Chance Conversations, But The Stream Of The Unconscious Continues To Flow Undisturbed, Solving Problems, Planning Ahead: One Sits Down Sterile And Dispirited At The Desk, And Suddenly The Words Come As Though From The Air: The Situations That Seemed Blocked In A Hopeless Impasse Move Forward: The Work Has Been Done While One Slept Or Shopped Or Talked With Friends.

It Is The Same In Life: Sometimes It Is More Difficult To Make A Scene Than To Die.