If You Treat Life Well,

When Man, Apollo Man, Rockets Into Space, It Isn't In Order To Find His Brother, I'm Quite Sure Of That. It's To Confirm That He Hasn't Any Brothers.

I Was Thinking That I Should Be Content To Kiss Him Until The Break Of Day. Bertrand Ran Out Of Kisses Too Soon; Desire Made Them Superfluous In His Eyes. They Were Only A Stage On The Road To Pleasure, Not Something Inexhaustible And Self-sufficient, As Luc Had Revealed Them To Me.

A Strange Melancholy Pervades Me To Which I Hesitate To Give The Grave And Beautiful Name Of Sorrow. The Idea Of Sorrow Has Always Appealed To Me But Now I Am Almost Ashamed Of It's Complete Egoism. I Have Known Boredom, Regret, And Occasionally Remorse, But Never Sorrow. Today It Envelops Me Like A Silken Web, Enervating And Soft, And Sets Me Apart From Everybody Else.

Life Has Confirmed For Me The Thoughts And Impressions I Had When I Was 18, As If It Was All Intuition.

Writing Is A Question Of Finding A Certain Rhythm. I Compare It To The Rhythms Of Jazz. Much Of The Time Life Is A Sort Of Rhythmic Progression Of Three Characters. If One Tells Oneself That Life Is Like That, One Feels It Less Arbitrary.