If I Were Asked To Think Up

I Don't Believe In Writing At Night Because It Comes Too Easily. When I Read It In The Morning It's Not Good. I Need Daylight To Begin. Between Nine And Ten O'clock I Have A Long Breakfast With Reading And Music.

Art Is So Wonderfully Irrational, Exuberantly Pointless, But Necessary All The Same. Pointless And Yet Necessary, That's Hard For A Puritan To Understand.

Melancholy Has Ceased To Be An Individual Phenomenon, An Exception. It Has Become The Class Privilege Of The Wage Earner, A Mass State Of Mind That Finds Its Cause Wherever Life Is Governed By Production Quotas.

I Expected More From Literature Than From Real, Naked Life.

The Human Head Is Bigger Than The Globe. It Conceives Itself As Containing More. It Can Think And Rethink Itself And Ourselves From Any Desired Point Outside The Gravitational Pull Of The Earth. It Starts By Writing One Thing And Later Reads Itself As Something Else. The Human Head Is Monstrous.