A Man Who Lives Unrelated

Creation Which Cannot Express Itself Becomes Madness.

We Must Protect The Minority Writers Because They Are The Research Workers Of Literature. They Keep It Alive. It Has Been Fashionable Of Late To Seek Out And Force Such Writers Into More Popular Channels, To The Detriment Of Both Writer And An Unprepared Public.

We Sit On The Kitchen Exchanging These Diabolical Outgrowths Of Overfertile Minds.

The Violence And Obscenity Are Left Unadulterated, As Manifestation Of The Mystery And Pain Which Ever Accompanies The Act Of Creation.

She Had Lost Herself Somewhere Along The Frontier Between Her Inventions, Her Stories, Her Fantasies And Her True Self. The Boundaries Had Become Effaced, The Tracks Lost, She Had Walked Into Pure Chaos, And Not A Chaos Which Carried Her Like The Galloping Of Romantic Riders In Operas And Legends, But Which Suddenly Revealed The Stage Props: A Papier-mâché Horse.