I Had A Strong Desire To Write

Life Has Confirmed For Me The Thoughts And Impressions I Had When I Was 18, As If It Was All Intuition.

I Found Myself Both Touched And Irritated By The Discovery That She Was Vulnerable.

I've Read Proust And Stendhal. That Keeps You In Your Place.

A Strange Melancholy Pervades Me To Which I Hesitate To Give The Grave And Beautiful Name Of Sorrow. The Idea Of Sorrow Has Always Appealed To Me But Now I Am Almost Ashamed Of It's Complete Egoism. I Have Known Boredom, Regret, And Occasionally Remorse, But Never Sorrow. Today It Envelops Me Like A Silken Web, Enervating And Soft, And Sets Me Apart From Everybody Else.

Writing Is Just Having A Sheet Of Paper, A Pen And Not A Shadow Of An Idea Of What You Are Going To Say.