One does odd things. You see, when one's young one doesn't feel part of it yet, the human condition; one does things because they are not “for good”; one thinks everything is a rehearsal - to be repeated ad lib, to be put right when the curtain goes up in earnest. One
day you know that the curtain was up all the time. That was the performance.
Writing is thinking. To write well is to think clearly. That's why it's so hard.
The tragedy is when you've got sex in the head instead of down where it belongs.
Love's mysteries in souls do grow,
But yet the body is his book.