For In Spite Of The

When Our Thoughts Revolve We Are So Often Deceived Into Supposing That Their Violent Movement Is An Indication Of Their Vigorous Originality, The Upheaval Of Prejudice And Fixed Ideas, When All The Time It Is More Likely That The Machine Which Contains Them Is Only An Elaborate Cement-mixer, And When The Thinking Is Finished, Those Whirling Thoughts Are Smoothed Into The Unchanged Conventional Mould And Seeing Them Set Solid Enough To Dance, To Build, To Travel Upon, We Would Never Dream Of Their First Deceit, Of The Hope Once Roused By Their Apparently Violent Reorganisation.

...there Must Be An Inviolate Place Where The Choices And Decisions, However Imperfect, Are The Writer's Own, Where The Decision Must Be As Individual And Solitary As Birth Or Death.

Everything Is Always A Story, But The Loveliest Ones Are Those That Get Written And Are Not Torn Up And Are Taken To A Friend As Payment For Listening, For Putting A Wise Keyhole To The Ear Of My Mind

So We Went To Bed, Assaulted By Sleep That Fumed At Us From Medicine Glasses, Or Was Wielded From Small Sweet-coated Tablets -- Dainty Bricks Of Dream Wrapped In The Silk Stockings Of Oblivion.

She Grew More And More Silent About What Really Mattered. She Curled Inside Herself Like One Of Those Black Chimney Brushes, The Little Shellfish You See On The Beach, And You Touch Them, And Then Go Inside And Don’t Come Out.