London Is Like A Cold Dark Dream

Very Few People Change After Well Say Seven Or Seventeen. Not Really. They Get More This Or More That And Of Course Look A Bit Different. But Inside They Are The Same.

When You Are A Child You Are Yourself And You Know And See Everything Prophetically. And Then Suddenly Something Happens And You Stop Being Yourself; You Become What Others Force You To Be. You Lose Your Wisdom And Your Soul.

He Had Discovered That People Who Allow Themselves To Be Blown About By The Winds Of Emotion And Impulse Are Always Unhappy People.

The Musty Smell, The Bugs, The Lonliness, This Room, Which Is Part Of The Street Outside-this Is All I Want From Life.

All Of Writing Is A Huge Lake. There Are Great Rivers That Feed The Lake, Like Tolstoy Or Dostoyevsky. And Then There Are Mere Trickles, Like Jean Rhys. All That Matters Is Feeding The Lake. I Don't Matter. The Lake Matters. You Must Keep Feeding The Lake.