But What I Do I Do Because

I Chart A Little First-list Of Names, Rough Synopsis Of Chapters, And So On. But One Daren't Overplan; So Many Things Are Generated By The Sheer Act Of Writing.

And, My Brothers, It Was Real Satisfaction To Me To Waltz-left Two Three, Right Two Three-and Carve Left Cheeky And Right Cheeky, So That Like Two Curtains Of Blood Seemed To Pour Out At The Same Time, One On Either Side Of His Fat Filthy Oily Snout In The Winter Starlight.

The Aura Of The Theocratic Death Penalty For Adultery Still Clings To America, Even Outside New England, And Multiple Divorce, Which Looks To The European Like Serial Polygamy, Is The Moral Solution To The Problem Of The Itch. Love Comes Into It Too, Of Course, But In Europe We Tend To See Marital Love As An Eternity Which Encompasses Hate And Also Indifference: When We Promise To Love We Really Mean That We Promise To Honor A Contract. Americans, Seeming To Take Marriage With Not Enough Seriousness, Are Really Taking Love And Sex With Too Much.

Delimitation Is Always Difficult. The World Is One, Life Is One. The Sweetest And Most Heavenly Of Activities Partake In Some Measure Of Violence - The Act Of Love, For Instance; Music, For Instance.

Writers Are Rarely Their Own Best Critics, Nor Are Critics.