An artist is a cut above the critic, for the artist is writing something which will move the critic. The critic is writing something which will move everybody but the artist
Thetorment of human frustration, whatever its immediate cause,is the knowledge that the self is in prison, its vital force and ‘mangledmind’ leaking away in lonely, wasteful self-conflict.
Girls .. . were allowed to play in the house . . . and boys were sent outdoors. . .Boys ran around in the yard with toy guns going kksshh-kksshh,fighting wars for made-up reasons and arguing about whowas dead, while girls stayed inside and played with dol