I Don't Really Believe In

The True Self Seeks Release, Not Constraint. It Doesnt Want To Be Corseted In A Sonnet Or Made To Learn A System Of Musical Notations. It Wants Liberation, Which Is Why Very Often It Fastens On The Novel, For The Novel Seems Spacious, Undefined, Free.

I Felt That I Could Swim For Miles, Out Into The Ocean: A Desire For Freedom, An Impulse To Move, Tugged At Me As Though It Were A Thread Fastened To My Chest. It Was An Impulse I Knew Well, And I Had Learned That It Was Not The Summons From A Larger World I Used To Believe It To Be. It Was Simply A Desire To Escape From What I Had.

Christianity Has Kept Itself Going For Centuries On Hope Alone, And Has Perpetrated All Manner Of Naughtiness In The Meantime.

The Reaction To 'aftermath' Has Been Far Worse Than To 'a Life's Work,' Yet I Find I'm Perhaps A Little Less Touched By It. In Both Cases, I've Coped Artistically By Believing The Criticisms Weren't Right. They Upset Me, But They Didn't Challenge My Understanding Of How To Write, Nor Of How Morality Functions In Literature.

It Is Interesting How Keen People Are For You To Do Something They Would Never Dream Of Doing Themselves, How Enthusiasticall Y They Drive You To Your Own Destruction.