All I Can Do Is

I Wish I Could Tell You About The South Pacific. The Way It Actually Was. The Endless Ocean. The Infinite Specks Of Coral We Called Islands. Coconut Palms Nodding Gracefully Toward The Ocean. Reefs Upon Which Waves Broke Into Spray, And Inner Lagoons, Lovely Beyond Description. I Wish I Could Tell You About The Sweating Jungle, The Full Moon Rising Behind The Volcanoes, And The Waiting. The Waiting. The Timeless, Repetitive Waiting.

Only Another Writer, Someone Who Had Worked His Heart Out On A Good Book Which Sold Three Thousand Copies, Could Appreciate The Thrill That Overcame Me One April Morning In 1973 When Dean Rivers Of Our Small College In Georgia Appeared At My Classroom Door

I Kept Careful Record Of The Impact Of Religion On The Election In My County. The Religious Issue Permeated Every Meeting I Conducted. It Influenced Republicans And Democrats Alike. Ministers Preached Politics Publicly And Churches Distributed The Most Vicious Electioneering Materials. Practically No One I Met Escaped The Pressure Of This Overriding Problem And Both Parties Were Ultimately Forced To Make Their Major Calculations With The Religious Question A Foremost Consideration.

Contrary To What People Think, I Slave Over My Books.

Although Most Of Us Know Vincent Van Gogh In Arles And Paul Gauguin In Tahiti As If They Were Neighbors -- Somewhat Disreputable But Endlessly Fascinating -- None Of Us Can Name Two French Generals Or Department Store Owners Of That Period. I Take Enormous Pride In Considering Myself An Artist, One Of The Necessaries.