I Wish Sometimes You Had

There Is A Point Of No Return, Unremarked At The Time, In Most Lives.

O God, You've Done Enough, You've Robbed Me Of Enough, I'm Too Tired And Old To Learn To Love, Leave Me Alone For Ever.

If You Live In A Place For Long You Cease To Read About It.

So Much In Writing Depends On The Superficiality Of One's Days. One May Be Preoccupied With Shopping And Income Tax Returns And Chance Conversations, But The Stream Of The Unconscious Continues To Flow Undisturbed, Solving Problems, Planning Ahead: One Sits Down Sterile And Dispirited At The Desk, And Suddenly The Words Come As Though From The Air: The Situations That Seemed Blocked In A Hopeless Impasse Move Forward: The Work Has Been Done While One Slept Or Shopped Or Talked With Friends.

Grief And Disappointment Are Like Hate: They Make Men Ugly With Self-pity And Bitterness. And How Selfish They Make Us Too.