By The Age Of Forty, A Man

Writers Should Avoid The Academy. When A Writer Begins To Accept Pay For Talking About Words, We Know What He Will Produce Soon: Nothing But Words.

Desert Springtime, With Flowers Popping Up All Over The Place, Trees Leafing Out, Streams Gushing Down From The Mountains. Great Time Of Year For Hiking, Camping, Exploring, Sleeping Under The New Moon And The Old Stars. At Dawn And At Evening We Hear The Coyotes Howling With Excitement—mating Season.

I'm Happy To Respect Authority When It's Genuine Authority, Based On Moral Or Intellectual Or Even Technical Superiority. I'm Eager To Follow A Hero If We Can Find One. But I Tend To Resist Or Evade Any Kind Of Authority Based Merely On The Power To Coerce. Government, For Example. The Army Tried To Train Us To Salute The Uniform, Not The Man. Failed. I Will Salute The Man, Maybe, If I Think He's Worthy Of It, But I Don't Salute Uniforms Anymore.

What Is Reason? Knowledge Informed By Sympathy, Intelligence In The Arms Of Love.

Style: There Is Something In Too Much Verbal Felicity (as In Joyce Or Nabokov Or Borges) That Can Betray The Writer Into Technique For The Sake Of Technique.