I Think Making Mistakes And Discovering Them

I Abhor The Idea Of A Perfect World. It Would Bore Me To Tears.

Generally The First Week In September Brings The Hottest Weather Of The Year, And This Was No Exception. Overhead The Fans Turned Slow, Their Paddle Blades Stirring The Air Up Close To The Ceiling But Nowheres Else.

The Point I Would Make Is That The Novelist And The Historian Are Seeking The Same Thing: The Truth – Not A Different Truth: The Same Truth – Only They Reach It, Or Try To Reach It, By Different Routes. Whether The Event Took Place In A World Now Gone To Dust, Preserved By Documents And Evaluated By Scholarship, Or In The Imagination, Preserved By Memory And Distilled By The Creative Process, They Both Want To Tell Us How It Was: To Re-create It, By Their Separate Methods, And Make It Live Again In The World Around Them.

I've Never Shown Anybody A Draft Of Anything.

North Was Only A Direction Indicated By A Compass--if A Man Had One, That Is, For Otherwise There Was No North Or South Or East Or West; There Was Only The Brooding Desolation.