I Don't Think I Began

It Came To Me That Hell Would Not Be Fire And Smoke After All But Arctic, Everything White And Frigid. Hell Would Be Not Anger But Indifference.

I Write Very Tightly, And My Big Fear Is Boring People. I Want Them To Read Quickly, Stopped In Their Tracks. I Resist Indulging Myself.

You Have To Accept The Critical Reviews If They Treat You With Respect. Actually, It's One Person's Opinion. So, It's A Concern But Not An Overriding One, And I Don't Stay Up Nights Worrying About Reviews. But There Are Certain People I Respect Who I Hope Will Like A Book.

He Was Swept With A Sadness, A Sadness Deep And Penetrating, Leaving Him Desolate Like Someone Washed Up On A Beach, A Lone Survivor In A World Full Of Strangers.

Why Did The Wise Guys Always Accuse Other People Of Being Wise Guys?