I Think I Write Or

Too Late, But I Understand. That We Don't Perish Of Understanding Everything Too Late, That Is A Miracle. But We Do Perish Of That -- Of Just That.

Because That Is When You Love Somebody - When You See Them Being Game In The Face Of The Worst. Not Courageous. Not Heroic. Just Game.

I Cannot And Do Not Live In The World Of Discretion, Not As A Writer, Anyway. I Would Prefer To, I Assure You - It Would Make Life Easier. But Discretion Is, Unfortunately, Not For Novelists.

What I Have In Mind When I Start To Write Could Fit Inside An Acorn-an Acorn, Moreover, That Rarely If Ever Grows Into An Oak. Write Fiction And You Relinquish Reason. You Start With An Acorn And You End Up With A Mackerel.

I Was A Biography In Constant Motion, Memory To The Marrow Of My Bones.