The One Thing I Regret

I Recognize Limitations In The Sense That I've Read Tolstoy And Dostoyevsky And Shakespeare . . . Aside From That I Don't Think Of Limiting Myself.

If You Don't Have Imagination You're Lost. But It's A Virtue That's Becoming Increasingly Rare, Especially In Its Higher Form: Spontaneity. Mad, Happy Spontaneity.

It Seems To Me That There Are Two Kinds Of Trickery: The "fronts" People Assume Before One Another's Eyes, And The "front" A Writer Puts On The Face Of Reality.

Only By Pursuing The Extremes In One's Nature, With All Its Contradictions, Appetites, Aversions, Rages, Can One Hope To Understand A Little - Oh, I Admit Only A Very Little - Of What Life Is About.

For This Was The Round Of Love: Fear Which Leads On Desire, Tenderness And Fury, And That Brutal Anguish Which Triumphantly Follows Pleasure.