What Is The Ultimate Impulse To Write?

A Writer Writes A Book. People Read It. You Don't Know What They're Reading, Really. You Read A Review And Think, "that Is So Inaccurate. You Can't Have Been Reading My Book With Any Kind Of Attention, Because That Is All Wrong, That's Even The Wrong Name You're Including There." But These Reviewers Have Been Diminished In Importance, The Work Is So Little Respected. If You're Reviewed By A Real Critic, By James Wood Or Louis Menand, Then You Get Something That Is Informed, Interesting, And Highly Articulate. But The Average Review Doesn't Have That Kind Of Depth Anymore.

The Summer Has Ended. The Garden Withers. The Mornings Become Chill. I Am Thirty, I Am Thirty-four -the Years Turn Dry As Leaves.

Solitude. One Knows Instinctively It Has Benefits That Must Be More Deeply Satisfying Than Those Of Other Conditions, But Still It Is Difficult.

A Film Writer Is Very Much Like A Party Girl. While You're Good-looking And Still Unlined, The Possibilities Seem Endless. But Your Appeal Doesn't Last Long And You're Quickly Discarded.

Love Must Wait; It Must Break One’s Bones.