Every Word I Say Has Chains Round

Sometimes The Earth Trembles; Sometimes You Can Feel It Breathe.

Something In Her Brain That Still Remained Calm Told Her That She Was Doing A Very Foolish Thing Indeed.

All Of Writing Is A Huge Lake. There Are Great Rivers That Feed The Lake, Like Tolstoy Or Dostoyevsky. And Then There Are Mere Trickles, Like Jean Rhys. All That Matters Is Feeding The Lake. I Don't Matter. The Lake Matters. You Must Keep Feeding The Lake.

Every Word I Say Has Chains Round Its Ankles; Every Thought I Think Is Weighted With Heavy Weights.

A Room Is, After All, A Place Where You Hide From The Wolves. That's All Any Room Is.