Once You Get A Tyranny,

Between His Eyes, There Were Four Lines, The Marks Of Such Misery As Children Should Never Feel. He Spoke With That Wonderful Whisky Voice That So Many Spanish Children Have, And He Was A Tough And Entire Little Boy.

If I Were A First Rate Writer, I Wouldn't Mind A Bit. What Does Depress Me Is This: It Is So Desperately Hard And So Obsessive And So Lonely To Write That, In Return For All This Work, One Would Like A Little Self Satisfaction. And That Is Never Going To Come, For The Simple Reason That I Do Not Deserve It. I Cannot Be A Good Enough Writer. You See? I Call It Grim. But The Future Looks Awfully Clear To Me.

Then Somebody Suggested I Should Write About The War, And I Said I Didn't Know Anything About The War. I Did Not Understand Anything About It. I Didn't See How I Could Write It

A Broken Heart Is Such A Shabby Thing, Like Poverty And Failure And The Incurable Diseases Which Are Also Deforming. I Hate It And Am Ashamed Of It, And I Must Somehow Repair This Heart And Put It Back Into Its Normal Condition, As A Tough Somewhat Scarred But Operating Organ.

I Tell You Loneliness Is The Thing To Master. Courage And Fear, Love, Death Are Only Parts Of It And Can Easily Be Ruled Afterwards. If I Make Myself Master My Own Loneliness There Will Be Peace Or Safety: And Perhaps These Are The Same.