Revenge Is What I Want. Nothing But

I Got Disappointed In Human Nature As Well And Gave It Up Because I Found It Too Much Like My Own.

Sometimes You Write And You Find Yourself Almost Wondering How It Will Turn Out. I Don't Think Every Writer Sort Of Almost Admits That At Some Stage His Books Can Take On Their Own Kind Of Life It Selves And Simply Lead Away Into Directions That They're Not Kind Of Prepared For.

Food Throwers: Begun Usually By Estranged Couples, Once This Victual Flinging Starts, Everyone Will Do It...should Your Dinner Party Have Become An Out Of Control Concussion Match With Opponents Catapulting Croutons And Petits Pois Across The Mahogany, Don't Fight It, Go With It. And When You Have The Desire To Quell The Uprising Approach The Original Perpetrator From Behind. There, Slowly Crown Her With The Contents Of The Fresh Fruit Salad Bowl. But Be Warned. Although This Immobilizes And Rivits Everyone's Attention It Also Gives Them New Ideas.

I Remember One Letter From A Girl In A Midwestern Town Who Read One Of My Books And Thought She Had Discovered It- That No One Had Ever Read It Or Knew About It. Then One Day In Her Local Library She Found Cards For One Or Two Of My Other Books. They Were Full Of Names- The Books Were Borrowed All The Time. She Resented This A Bit And Then Walked Around The Town Looking In Everybody's Face And Wondering If They Were The Ones Who Were Reading My Books. That Is Someone I Write For.

When I Die, I Want To Decompose In A Barrel Of Porter And Have It Served In All The Pubs In Dublin. I Wonder Would They Know It Was Me?