One Must Lose One's Life To Find

What A Crippling Art Writing Is, No Body To It, No Craft, Really. It's All In The Mind And You Never See It Or Feel It -- Only Sometimes Hear It. It Uses Only Such A Small Part Of Man. I Wish I Were A Sculptor.

What A Commentary On Our Civilization, When Being Alone Is Considered Suspect; When One Has To Apologize For It, Make Excuses, Hide The Fact That One Practices It—like A Secret Vice!

Geniuses Were Like Storms Or Cyclones, Pulling Everything Into Their Path, Sticks And Stones And Dust.

In The Sheltered Simplicity Of The First Days After A Baby Is Born, One Sees Again The Magical Closed Circle, The Miraculous Sense Of Two People Existing Only For Each Other.

I Find The Weight Of Air/almost Too Great To Bear.