Man thrives where angels die of ecstasy and pigs die of disgust. - Kenneth Rexroth

All night I lay awake beside you, Leaning on my elbow, watching your Sleeping face, that face whose purity Never ceases to astonish me.

Towards the end of the night, as trucks rumbled In the streets, you stirred, cuddled to me, And spoke my name. Your voice was the voice Of a girl who had never known loss Of love, betrayal, mistrust, or lie.

Any writer, reading over the typescript of a book for the last time before sending it off to the publisher, must wonder what all the effort was for. An autobiography is specially in need of justification to its author. It is a work of self-justification which itself needs justifying. Why have I written this book? Why have I written it the way I have? What does it mean to me? What do I hope it will mean to others? Each human being has at the final core of self a crystal from which the whole manifold of the personality develops, a secret molecular lattice which governs the unfolding of all the structures of the individuality, in time, in space, in memory, in action and contemplation. Asleep there were just these dreams and no others. Awake there were these actions only. Only these deeds came into being.