I Hated Hemingway. I Liked Faulkner But

I'm Very Scared, Buster. Yes, At Last. Because It Could Go On Forever. Not Knowing What's Yours Until You've Thrown It Away.

I Believe More In The Scissors Than I Do In The Pencil.

Talent, And Genius As Well, Is Like A Grain Of Pearl Sand Shifting About In The Creative Mind. A Valued Tormentor.

But Mostly They Were Lies I Told; It Wasn't My Fault, I Couldn't Remember, Because It Was As Though I'd Been To One Of Those Supernatural Castles Visited By Characters In Legends: Once Away, You Do Not Remember, All That Is Left Is The Ghostly Echo Of Haunting Wonder.

A Boy Has To Peddle His Book.