Cities Produce In Me Melancholy

To Deny That There Was This Dark Side Of Life Would Be Like Pretending That The Cold Of Winter Was Somehow Only A Temporary Illusion, A Way Station On The Way To The Higher "reality" Of Long, Warm, Pleasant Summers. But Summer, It Turned Out, Was No More Real Than The Snow That Melted In Wintertime.

I Write Because Something Inner And Unconscious Forces Me To. That Is The First Compulsion. The Second Is One Of Ethical And Moral Duty. I Feel Responsible To Tell Stories That Inspire Readers To Consider More Deeply Who They Are.

The Status Quo Was Rote Memorization And Recitation In Classrooms Thronged With Passive Children Who Were Sternly Disciplined When They Expressed Individual Needs.

When It Comes Time To Sit Down And Write The Next Book, You're Deathly Afraid That You're Not Up To The Task. That Was Certainly The Case With Me After Snow Falling On Cedars.

Accident Ruled Every Corner Of The Universe Except The Chambers Of The Human Heart.