Fiction to me seems a lesser form of art than journal writing. I can’t read it and I can’t write it. The only thing which seems of value is to put down one’s own thoughts on paper. The real psychological storms people go through in their own heads seem of more value than any invented dramas. “Morning after a Stormy Night” always a perfect Munich picture (paintings I rank above photography, of course). Given I always depict my marriage as a storm at sea, or a shipwreck, or the explosion of the Hindenburg, maybe that should be the cover, and the title of my 6th book, the first post-marriage volume of my journals? Your pleasures have led to your shipwreck, the destruction of your ship, just planks and timbers left the morning after; now you can never really enjoy those pleasures again; you can try, but they will never hold the innocent thrill and excitement they did before. After falling in love with —— I could never really get a thrill out of anything again—cinema, opera, theatre, collecting newspaper cuttings.