—Well damn it I, don’t you think I . . . he came down against the chair drawn up to the typewriter,—writer who can’t even find a pencil, God damn instinct for the jugular told me the reason I don’t finish it I’m afraid to compete with myself, terrible slowness of things in a dream . . . and he tore the page from the typewriter.—They wheeled, I fired, and they were gone, but there on the ground with a broken damn it Jack do you know how many times I’ve written that? rewritten that? Marries a writer like a politician wants him to win, she thinks you’re in some God damn competition running for something, one God damn person take your doubts to lay them in her lap and she . . .

—Just told you Tom worst God damned thing you can do, bunch of God damned open wounds lay them in her lap what the hell do you expect. First time she has to get the God damned knives out she can’t resist them, laid them all out for her she knows right where they are can’t resist them, in here think you’re writing a play characters come out of your typewriter what the hell you expect them to look like all those God damned knives going on around you, bunch of God damned arms wandering around bereft of shoulders right out of Empedocles hell do you expect. God damned knives going around she’s standing at the sink in the kitchen man down there no hands no ears no God damned face drinks pints easier to hold between his wrist stumps, she’s standing at the sink has to get the God damned knives out knows right where they go what the hell do you expect . . .