The Summer Has Ended. The

My Idea Of Writing Is Of Unflinching And Continual Effort, Somehow Trying To Find The Right Words Until You Reach A Point Where You Can Make No Further Progress And You Either Have Something Or You Don’t.

Now They Are Lovers. The First, Wild Courses Are Ended. They Have Founded Their Domain. A Satanic Happiness Follows.

The Book Was In Her Lap; She Had Read No Further. The Power To Change One’s Life Comes From A Paragraph, A Lone Remark. The Lines That Penetrate Us Are Slender, Like The Flukes That Live In River Water And Enter The Bodies Of Swimmers. She Was Excited, Filled With Strength. The Polished Sentences Had Arrived, It Seemed, Like So Many Other Things, At Just The Right Time. How Can We Imagine What Our Lives Should Be Without The Illumination Of The Lives Of Others?

I Always Knew Writing A Novel Was A Great Thing.

In A Certain Sense, A Writer Is An Exile, An Outsider, Always Reporting On Things, And It Is Part Of His Life To Keep On The Move. Travel Is Natural.