He Was Like A Child With Haemophilia:

If You Live In A Place For Long You Cease To Read About It.

For God's Sake Stop Making People In Your Image. Harry Was Real. He Wasn't Just Your Hero And My Lover. He Was Harry. He Was In A Racket. He Did Bad Things. What About It? He Was The Man We Knew.

They Think My Mother's Ashes Are Marijuana.

And There, In That Phrase, The Bitterness Leaks Again Out Of My Pen. What A Dull Lifeless Quality This Bitterness Is. If I Could I Would Write With Love, But If I Could Write With Love I Would Be Another Man; I Would Never Have Lost Love.

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.