The Truth Came Slowly Like

I Don't Know What Makes A Writer's Voice. It's Dozens Of Things. There Are People Who Write Who Don't Have It. They're Tone-deaf, Even Though They're Very Fluent. It's An Ability, Like Anything Else, Being A Doctor Or A Veterinarian, Or A Musician.

There Was No Way To Grasp The Reality Of The Present Which Slid Away Each Second, Invisible As Air; Reality Only Existed After The Fact, In One's Vision Of The Past.

Literature Is The Province Of Imagination, And Stories, In Whatever Guise, Are Meditations On Life.

I've Always Known A Lot Of Very Bad People, Destructive, Brutes Of A Certain Kind. Then I've Seen These Lovely Impulses And What Not, And They've Stayed With Me And Comforted Me.

Imagination Has To Do With One's Awareness Of The Reality Of Other People As Well As Of One's Own Reality. Imagination Is A Bridge Between The Provincialism Of The Self And The Great World.