I Have Never Kept Diaries.

He Never Wanted To Be Away From Her. She Had The Spark Of Life.

Sometimes I Get The Start Of A Story From A Memory, An Anecdote, But That Gets Lost And Is Usually Unrecognizable In The Final Story.

She Sits In Her Usual Ample Armchair, With Piles Of Books And Unopened Magazines Around Her. She Sips Cautiously From The Mug Of Weak Herb Tea Which Is Now Her Substitute For Coffee. At One Time She Thought That She Could Not Live Without Coffee, But It Turned Out That It Is Really The Warm Large Mug She Wants In Her Hands, That Is The Aid To Thought Or Whatever It Is She Practices Through The Procession Of Hours, Or Of Days.

I Have Never Kept Diaries. I Just Remember A Lot And Am More Self-centered Than Most People.

For Years And Years I Thought That Stories Were Just Practice, Till I Got Time To Write A Novel.