Writing Cannot Be Done In

The Dominant And Most Deep-dyed Trait Of The Journalist Is His Timorousness. Where The Novelist Fearlessly Plunges Into The Water Of Self-exposure, The Journalist Stands Trembling On The Shore In His Beach Robe. The Journalist Confines Himself To The Clean, Gentlemanly Work Of Exposing The Grieves And Shames Of Others.

All Analyses End Badly. Each 'termination' Leaves The Participants With The Taste Of Ashes In Their Mouths; Each Is Absurd; Each Is A Small, Pointless Death. Psychoanalysis Cannot Tolerate Happy Endings; It Casts Them Off The Way The Body's Immunological System Casts Off Transplanted Organs.

Malice Remains Its Animating Impulse.

Journalists Justify Their Treachery In Various Ways According To Their Temperaments. The More Pompous Talk About Freedom Of Speech And ‘the Public’s Right To Know’; The Least Talented Talk About Art; The Seemliest Murmur About Earning A Living.

Biography Is The Medium Through Which The Remaining Secrets Of The Famous Dead Are Taken From Them And Dumped Out In Full View Of The World. The Biographer At Work, Indeed, Is Like The Professional Burglar, Breaking Into A House, Rifling Through Certain Drawers That He Has Good Reason To Think Contain The Jewelry And Money, And Triumphantly Bearing His Loot Away.