I Think In Many Ways

All Of These Declarations Of What Writing Ought To Be, Which I Had Myself-though, Thank God I Had Never Committed Them To Paper-i Think Are Nonsense. You Write What You Write, And Then Either It Holds Up Or It Doesn't Hold Up. There Are No Rules Or Particular Sensibilities. I Don't Believe In That At All Anymore.

Everything I Do Is Because Of Writing. If I Go For A Walk, It's Because I'm Thinking Of Writing. I Go Look At Flowers, I Go Look At The Garden, I Go Look At A Museum, But It's All Coming Back To Writing.

I've Never Gotten Used To Winter And Never Will.

I Didn't Know It Was Possible To Be Successful As A Writer, So I Wasn't Afraid To Fail.

The Garden Has Taught Me To Live, To Appreciate The Times When Things Are Fallow And When They're Not.