A Real Friendship Is A

That Sinuous Southern Life, That Oblique And Slow And Complicated Old Beauty, That Warm Thick Air And Blood Warm Sea, That Place Of Mists And Languor And Fragrant Richness.

I Think That Sometimes The Great Changes In Our Lives, The Ones That Divide Time, Happen So Deep Down And Silently That We Don't Even Know When They Occur......it Frequently Happens That The Seasons Of The Greatest Change Are The Times That Feel The Most Tranquil, The Most Suspended, The Most...timeless.

I Think Every Creative Impulse That A Working Writer, Or Artist Of Any Sort Has, Comes Out Of That Dark Old Country Where Dreams Come From.

It's Unimaginable To Me That I Wouldn't Write, But It's Very Imaginable That I Won't Write For A Little While.

Walter Loves The Sea, And I Need It In Some Elemental Way That I Cannot Even Come Close To Verbalizing. I Become Dim And Shriveled Somehow At My Very Core If I Am Away From The Sea Too Long. When I Return To It I Seem To Fill Up And Overflow With It, Soaking In The Vast, Sighing Wetness Of It Like A Parched Vine In A Long, Soft Spring Rain.