Thousands have lived without love, none without water. - W. H. Auden

The center that I cannot find is known to my unconscious mind.

Lay your sleeping head, my love,
Human on my faithless arm;

A writer, or at least a poet, is always being asked by people who should know better: “Whom do you write for?” The question is, of course, a silly one, but I can give it a silly answer. Occasionally I come across a book which I feel has been written especially for me and for me only. Like a jealous lover I don’t want anybody else to hear of it. To have a million such readers, unaware of each other’s existence, to be read with passion and never talked about, is the daydream, surely, of every author.