I Hate My Life. I'm At The

I've Never Made An Outline For Any Novel That I've Written. Never.

The Language Of My Books Has Shaped Me As A Man.

In This Century The Writer Has Carried On A Conversation With Madness. We Might Almost Say Of The Twentieth-century Writer That He Aspires To Madness. Some Have Made It, Of Course, And They Hold Special Places In Our Regard. To A Writer, Madness Is A Final Distillation Of Self, A Final Editing Down. It's The Drowning Out Of False Voices.

It Was The Time Of Year, The Time Of Day, For A Small Insistent Sadness To Pass Into The Texture Of Things. Dusk, Silence, Iron Chill. Something Lonely In The Bone.

There's A Moral Force In A Sentence When It Comes Out Right. It Speaks The Writer's Will To Live.