This Motion-picture Muddle Had Distracted

Today I Began The Novel That I Determined To Be Great.

Fishermen, No Matter What Supreme Good Fortune Befalls Them, Cannot Ever Be Absolutely Satisfied. It Is A Fundamental Weakness Of Intellect.

Every Once In A While I Feel The Tremendous Force Of The Novel. But It Does Not Stay With Me.

These Critics Who Crucify Me Do Not Guess The Littlest Part Of My Sincerity. They Must Be Burned In A Blaze. I Cannot Learn From Them.

What Makes Life Worth Living? Better Surely, To Yield To The Stain Of Suicide Blood In Me And Seek Forgetfulness In The Embrace Of Cold Dark Death.