I Think That If I

My Novels Are All Ideas.

On Sunday Morning I Went Out For A While In The Neighbourhood; I Bought Some Raisin Bread. The Day Was Warm But A Little Sad, As Sundays Often Are In Paris, Especially When One Doesn't Believe In God.

As A Teenager, Michel Believed That Suffering Conferred Dignity On A Person. Now He Had To Admit That He Had Been Wrong. What Conferred Dignity On People Was Television.

Rumor Had It That He Was Homosexual; In Reality, In Recent Years, He Was Simply A Garden-variety Alcoholic.

I Think That If Writers Don't Speak About Real Life, It's Because They Don't Know It.