Home May Be Where The

The Mystery Lies In The Here And Now. The Mystery Is: What Is One To Do With Oneself? As You Get Older You Begin To Realize The Trick Time Is Playing, And That Unless You Do Something About It, The Passage Of Time Is Nothing But The Encroachment Of The Horrible Banality Of The Past On The Pure Future. The Past Devours The Future Like A Tape Recorder, Converting Pure Possibility Into Banality. The Present Is The Tape Head, The Mouth Of Time. Then Where Is The Mystery And Why Bother Kicking Through The Ashes? Because There Is A Clue In The Past.

I Am Not Ashamed To Use The Word Class. I Will Also Plead Guilty To Another Charge. The Charge Is That People Belonging To My Class Think They're Better Than Other People. You're Damn Right We're Better. We're Better Because We Do Not Shirk Our Obligations Either To Ourselves Or To Others. . . .we Live By Our Lights, We Die By Our Lights, And Whoever The High Gods May Be, We'll Look Them In The Eye Without Apology.

I Don't Like To Be Described As A Southern Writer. The Danger Is, If You're Described As A Southern Writer, You Might Be Thought Of As Someone Who Writes About A Picturesque Local Scene Like Uncle Tom's Cabin, Gone With The Wind, Something Like That.

This Midwestern Sky Is The Nakedest Loneliest Sky In America. To Escape It, People Live Inside And Underground.

Like Many Young Men In The South, He Had Trouble Ruling Out The Possible. They Are Not Like An Immigrant's Son In Passaic Who Desires To Become A Dentist And That Is That. Southerners Have Trouble Ruling Out The Possible. What Happens To A... Man To Whom All Things Seem Possible And Every Course Of Action Open? Nothing Of Course.