I Was Not 15 Anymore,

I Was A News Reporter For 16 Years, Seven Of Them A Foreign Correspondent In The Middle East, Africa And The Balkans. Perhaps The Most Useful Equipment I Acquired In That Time Is A Lack Of Preciousness About The Act Of Writing. A Reporter Must Write. There Must Be A Story. The 'mot Juste' Unarriving? Tell That To Your Desk.

There Are Always A Few Who Stand Up In Times Of Communal Madness And Have The Courage To Say That What Unites Us Is Greater Than What Divides Us.

We Are Not The Only Animal That Mourns; Apes Do, And Elephants, And Dogs. Yet We Are The Only One That Tortures.

It Is Natural To Want To Forget, Anna, When Everyday Is A Brimful Of Sadness. But Those Souls Also Forgot Those That They Had Loved. You Do Not Want That, Surely? I Have Heard Some Preach That God Wants Us To Forget The Dead, But I Cannot Believe So. I Think He Gives Us Precious Recollections So That We May Not Be Parted Entirely From Those He Has Given Us To Love. You Must Cherish Your Memories Of Your Babes, Anna, Until You See Them Again In Heaven.

Writing Is Like Bricklaying; You Put Down One Word After Another. Sometimes The Wall Goes Up Straight And True And Sometimes It Doesn't And You Have To Push It Down And Start Again, But You Don't Stop; It's Your Trade.