As I leave Europe, my only message to myself, in light of this thoroughly wasted summer, is: Write, you bastard, write. Write desperately, frantically, under pressure from yourself, while God still gives you the time. Write until your eyes are glazed, until you have writer’s cramp, until you fall from your chair for weariness. Only by agitating your pen will you ever press out of your indifferent mind and ailing frame anything out of value to yourself or anyone else. Think neither of rest, nor relaxation, nor health, nor sympathy. These things are not for you. For you the written word, but in quantity–in order that there may be enough grain over the chaff. The discipline of language alone can overcome your innate laziness and lack of interest.