It's The Light Of The

In The End, Every Hypochondriac Is His Own Prophet.

Those Blessed Structures, Plot And Rhyme-- Why Are They No Help To Me Now I Want To Make Something Imagined, Not Recalled?

Sometimes Nothing Is So Solid To Me As Writing - I Suppose That's What A Vocation Means - At Times A Torment, A Bad Conscience, But All In All, Purpose And Direction.

I Want To Apologize For Plaguing You With So Many Telephone Calls Last November And December. When The 'enthusiasm' Is Coming On Me It Is Accompanied By A Feverish Reaching Out To My Friends. After Its Over I Wince And Wither.

If Youth Is A Defect, It Is One We Outgrow Too Soon.