The Story Fails But Your Faith In

I Knew I Would Be Famous One Day. That's Because I Lived In A Very Small Town And Nobody Liked Doing The Same Things I Did, Like Writing.

The Images, The Language, Of Pornography, And Romance Are Alike; Monotonous And Mechanically Seductive, Quickly Leading To Despair.

It's Not Possible To Advise A Young Writer Because Every Young Writer Is So Different. You Might Say, "read," But A Writer Can Read Too Much And Be Paralyzed. Or, "don't Read, Don't Think, Just Write," And The Result Could Be A Mountain Of Drivel. If You're Going To Be A Writer You'll Probably Take A Lot Of Wrong Turns And Then One Day Just End Up Writing Something You Have To Write, Then Getting It Better And Better Just Because You Want It To Be Better, And Even When You Get Old And Think, "there Must Be Something Else People Do," You Won't Be Able To Quit.

What If People Really Did That - Sent Their Love Through The Mail To Get Rid Of It? What Would It Be That They Sent? A Box Of Chocolates With Centers Like The Yolks Of Turkey Eggs. A Mud Doll With Hollow Eye Sockets. A Heap Of Roses Slightly More Fragrant Than Rotten. A Package Wrapped In Bloody Newspaper That Nobody Would Want To Open.

He Was Evidently The Sort Of Person Who Posed Questions That Were Traps For You To Fall Into.