I Am Infinitely Strange To Myself.

There Is No Plan. All Is Hazard. And The Only Thing That Will Preserve Us Is Ourselves.

These Last Few Days I've Felt Godless. I've Felt Cleaner, Less Muddled, Less Blind. I Still Believe In A God. But He's So Remote, So Cold, So Mathematical. I See That We Have To Live As If There Is No God. Prayer And Worship And Singing Hymns-all Silly And Useless.

If You Forget Everything Else About Me, Please Remember This. I Walked Down That Street And I Never Looked Back And I Love You. I Love You. I Love You So Much That I Shall Hate You For Ever For Today.

The American Myth Is Of Free Will In Its Simple, Primary Sense. One Can Choose Oneself And Will Oneself; And This Absurdly Optimistic Assumption So Dominates The Republic That It Has Bred All Its Gross Social Injustices.

There Are Many Reasons Why Novelists Write, But They All Have One Thing In Common - A Need To Create An Alternative World.