Memory, I Realize, Can Be

I Think Of My Pile Of Old Paperbacks, Their Pages Gone Wobbly, Like They'd Once Belonged To The Sea.

There's A Practical Problem About Time And Energy, And A More Subtle Problem Of What It Does To A Writer's Head, To Continually Analyze Why They Write, Where It All Comes From, Where It's Going To.

A Man Who Aspires To Rise Above The Mediocre, To Be Something More Than The Ordinary, Surely Deserves Admiration, Even If He Fails And Loses A Fortune On Account Of His Ambitions (...) If One Has Failed Only Where Others Have Not Had The Courage Or Will To Try, There Is Consolation - Indeed, Deep Satisfaction - To Be Gained From His Observation When Looking Back Over One's Life. #page No.134

As A Writer, I'm More Interested In What People Tell Themselves Happened Rather Than What Actually Happened.

The World Is Crawling With Authors Touring Now. They're Like Performance Artists.