It Is Only When Our Characters And

I Suppose I'd Had, By The Standards Of That Pre-permissive Time, A Good Deal Of Sex For My Age. Girls, Or A Certain Kind Of Girl, Liked Me; I Had A Car-not So Common Among Undergraduates In Those Days-and I Had Some Money. I Wasn't Ugly; And Even More Important, I Had My Loneliness, Which, As Every Cad Knows, Is A Deadly Weapon With Women. My 'technique' Was To Make A Show Of Unpredictability, Cynicism, And Indifference. Then, Like A Conjurer With His White Rabbit, I Produced The Solitary Heart.

The Practise Of An Art Is Essential To The Whole Man, Not Because Of What Art Is But Because Of What Art Does To The Artist.

It's Despair At The Lack Of Feeling, Of Love, Of Reason In The World. It's Despair That Anyone Can Even Contemplate The Idea Of Dropping A Bomb Or Ordering That It Should Be Dropped. It's Despair That So Few Of Us Care. It's Despair That There's So Much Brutality And Callousness In The World. It's Despair That Perfectly Normal Young Men Can Be Made Vicious And Evil Because They've Won A Lot Of Money. And Then Do What You've Done To Me.

I Knew I Would Always Want To Go On Living With Myself, However Hollow I Became, However Diseased.

I Am One In A Row Of Specimens. It's When I Try To Flutter Out Of Line That He Hates Me. I'm Meant To Be Dead, Pinned, Always The Same, Always Beautiful. He Knows That Part Of My Beauty Is Being Alive. But It's The Dead Me He Wants. He Wants Me Living-but-dead.