she slammed the door and was gone. I looked at the closed door and at the doorknob and strangely I didn't feel alone.
There is only one place to write and that is alone at a typewriter. The writer who has to go into the streets is a writer who does not know the streets. . . when you leave your typewriter you leave your machine gun and the rats come pouring through.
Basically, that's why I wrote: to save my ass, to save my ass from the madhouse, from the streets, from myself.
