And Gradually His Memory Slipped A Little,

My Books And Other Works Are My Legacy, And It's A Great Comfort To Know That Mine Is A Legacy Of Pleasure For Other People.

In The Touch, The Love Scenes Are The Same As They Were In The Thorn Birds Or Anything Else Ive Ever Written. I Find A Way Of Saying That Either It Was Heaven Or Hell But In A Way That Still Leaves Room For The Reader To Use Their Own Imagination.

Each Of Us Has Something Within Us Which Won't Be Denied, Even If It Makes Us Scream Aloud To Die. We Are What We Are, That's All. Like The Old Celtic Legend Of The Bird With The Thorn In Its Breast, Singing Its Heart Out And Dying. Because It Has To, Its Self-knowledge Can't Affect Or Change The Outcome, Can It? Everyone Singing His Own Little Song, Convinced It's The Most Wonderful Song The World Has Ever Heard. Don't You See? We Create Our Own Thorns, And Never Stop To Count The Cost. All We Can Do Is Suffer The Pain, And Tell Ourselves It Was Well Worth It.

Old Age Is An Ordeal, Of Flesh And Mind. Of Winding Down, Of Slowing Down, Of Dying Cells. It's Accepting The Loss Of Physical Attractiveness And Replacing It With The Power And Wisdom That Can Only Come With Old Age.

Yet There's Something Ominous About Turning Sixty-five. Suddenly Old Age Is Not A Phenomenon Which Will Occur; It Has Occurred.