For 30 Years I Have

Writing Is Not A Profession But A Vocation Of Unhappiness. I Don't Think An Artist Can Ever Be Happy.

Trotsky Rises To Give Me His Hand, Then Sits At His Desk, Gently Allowing His Regard To Light On My Person.

It Just Happened. As Though A Moment Comes When It's Both Necessary And Natural To Make A Decision That Has Long Since Been Made.

The Lake And The Mountains Have Become My Landscape, My Real World.

I Write Fast, Because I Have Not The Brains To Write Slow.