To Think Of Him In The Middle

She Makes Use Of The Soft Of The Bread For A Napkin. She Falls Asleep At Times With Shoes On, On Unmade Beds. When A Little Money Comes In, June Buys Delicacies, Strawberries In The Winter, Caviar And Bath Salts.

I Believe One Writes Because One Has To Create A World In Which One Can Live.

To Write Is To Descend, To Excavate, To Go Underground.

Everything But Happiness Is Neurosis.

Something Is Always Born Of Excess: Great Art Was Born Of Great Terror, Great Loneliness, Great Inhibitions, Instabilities, And It Always Balances Them.