But The More Poetry One Reads The

I Am Treating You As My Friend, Asking You To Share My Present Minuses In The Hope That I Can Ask You To Share My Future Plusses.

Tidied All My Papers. Tore Up And Ruthlessly Destroyed Much. This Is Always A Great Satisfaction.

I Don't Believe Other People Are Ever As Foolishly Excited As I Am While I'm Working. How Could They Be? Writers Would Have To Live In Trees.

I Think Of You Often. Especially In The Evenings, When I Am On The Balcony And It’s Too Dark To Write Or To Do Anything But Wait For The Stars. A Time I Love. One Feels Half Disembodied, Sitting Like A Shadow At The Door Of One’s Being While The Dark Tide Rises. Then Comes The Moon, Marvellously Serene, And Small Stars, Very Merry For Some Reason Of Their Own. It Is So Easy To Forget, In A Worldly Life, To Attend To These Miracles.

I Want, By Understanding Myself, To Understand Others.