I Was In New York. Hitchcock Was

My Imagination Functions Much Better When I Don't Have To Speak To People.

I Have No Television - I Hate It.

Everything Human Is Alien To Me.

I Should Love To Do A Novel, About One Abnormal Character Seeing Present-day Life, Very Ordinary Life, Yet Arresting Through It, Abnormality, Until At The End The Reader Sees, And With Little Reluctance, That He Is Not Abnormal At All, And That The Main Character Might As Well Be Himself.

Then Carol Slipped Her Arm Under Her Neck, And All The Length Of Their Bodies Touched Fitting As If Something Had Prearranged It. Happiness Was Like A Green Vine Spreading Through Her, Stretching Fine Tendrils, Bearing Flowers Through Her Flesh. She Had A Vision Of A Pale White Flower, Shimmering As If Seen In Darkness, Or Through Water. Why Did People Talk Of Heaven, She Wondered