I Have Given Up Considering Happiness As

If I Do Not Seem To Be Mentioning Anything I’ve Read Lately, It Is Because I Am In One Of Those Periods Of Undifferentiated Flux Or Something In Which I Am Reading About Fifty, At A Minimum, Books At Once, So Of Course I Seldom Finish One. Eventually This Phase Will Pass, And I’ll Discover I Have About Ten Pages To Go In All Of Them, And Will Sit Down And Systematically Finish Them, One After Another.

Only Art Means Anything.

If You're Doing Nonsense It Has To Be Rather Awful, Because There'd Be No Point. I'm Trying To Think If There's Sunny Nonsense. Sunny, Funny Nonsense For Children — Oh, How Boring, Boring, Boring. As Schubert Said, There Is No Happy Music. And That's True, There Really Isn't. And There's Probably No Happy Nonsense, Either.

Neither Mine Nor Other People's Prospects Seem Particularly Pleasing Just At The Moment, And I Have Fantasies Of Going To Iceland, Never To Return. As It Is, I Tell Myself Not To Remember The Past, Not To Hope Or Fear For The Future, And Not To Think In The Present, A Comprehensive Program That Will Undoubtedly Have Very Little Success.

If You're Doing Nonsense It Has To Be Rather Awful, Because There'd Be No Point.