There Is No Such Thing As An

No One Is More Conventional Than A Woman Who Is Falling Out Of Love.

If You Don't Have Imagination You're Lost. But It's A Virtue That's Becoming Increasingly Rare, Especially In Its Higher Form: Spontaneity. Mad, Happy Spontaneity.

Writing Is A Question Of Finding A Certain Rhythm. I Compare It To The Rhythms Of Jazz. Much Of The Time Life Is A Sort Of Rhythmic Progression Of Three Characters. If One Tells Oneself That Life Is Like That, One Feels It Less Arbitrary.

My Love Of Pleasure Seems To Be The Only Consistent Side Of My Character. Is It Because I Have Not Read Enough?

A Strange Melancholy Pervades Me To Which I Hesitate To Give The Grave And Beautiful Name Of Sorrow. The Idea Of Sorrow Has Always Appealed To Me But Now I Am Almost Ashamed Of It's Complete Egoism. I Have Known Boredom, Regret, And Occasionally Remorse, But Never Sorrow. Today It Envelops Me Like A Silken Web, Enervating And Soft, And Sets Me Apart From Everybody Else.