I Do Not Take Any Pleasure Whatsoever

And Off In The Far Distance, The Gold On The Wings Of The Angel Atop The Bell Tower Of San Marco Flashed In The Sun, Bathing The Entire City In Its Glistening Benediction.

We Buy Things. We Wear Them Or Put Them On Our Walls, Or Sit On Them, But Anyone Who Wants To Can Take Them Away From Us. Or Break Them. ... Long After He's Dead, Someone Else Will Own Those Stupid Little Boxes, And Then Someone After Him, Just As Someone Owned Them Before He Did. But No One Ever Thinks Of That: Objects Survive Us And Go On Living. It's Stupid To Believe We Own Them. And It's Sinful For Them To Be So Important.

Sit Around The Bars, Talked To People, Ate In The Restaurants, And Chatted With The Old Ladies On The Street. Fishermen Are Pretty Much That Way.

I Was Extraordinarily Lucky. I Wrote A Book Because I Wanted To See If I Could Write A Mystery. Someone Nagged Me Into Sending It To A Contest, Which It Won, After Which I Was Offered A Two-book Contract, Thus Requiring The Writing Of A Second Book.

I Do Not Take Any Pleasure Whatsoever In Being A Famous Person.