I Lived In New York For A

Time Seems To Me A Drift, A Shifting Of Sand. And My Mind Is Shifting With It. I Am Wearing Away.

Writing A Novel Is Like Driving A Car At Night. Sometimes You Run Over A Drunk Who's Lain Down And Fallen Asleep On The Warm Pavement. I Mean, Do You Keep Going, Or What?

I Knew He Was Unreliable, But He Was Fun To Be With. He Was A Child’s Ideal Companion, Full Of Surprises And Happy Animal Energy. He Enjoyed Food And Drink. He Liked To Try New Things. He Brought Home Coconuts, Papayas, Mangoes, And Urged Them On Our Reluctant Conservative Selves. On Sundays He Liked To Discover New Places, Take Us On Endless Bus Or Trolley Rides To Some New Park Or Beach He Knew About. He Always Counseled Daring, In Whatever Situation, The Courage To Test The Unknown, An Instruction That Was Thematically In Opposition To My Mother’s.

It May Be That The Most Avid Readers Of New Fiction In America Today Are Film Producers, An Indication Of The Trouble Were In.

There Is Really No Fiction Or Non-fiction; There Is Only Narrative. One Mode Of Perception Has No Greater Claim On The Truth Than The Other; That The Distance Has Perhaps To Do With Distance - Narrative Distance - From The Characters; It Has To Do With The Kind Of Voice That Is Talking, But It Certainly Hasn't To Do With The Common Distribution Between Fact And Imagination.