I Think The Bottom Line Is That

I Never Wrote Anything That Was Published Until I Was Forty.

Every Animal That Walks The Earth, Or Swims, Or Flies Is Precious Beyond Description, Something So Rare And Wonderful That It Equals The Stars Or The Ocean Or The Mind Of Man.

I Don’t Know Who My Parents Were. I Know Nothing About My Inheritance. I Could Be Jewish; I Could Be Part Negro; I Could Be Irish; I Could Be Russian. I Am Spiritually A Mix Anyway, But I Did Have A Solid Childhood Fortunately, Because Of Some Wonderful Women Who Brought Me Up. I Never Had A Father Or A Man In The House, And That Was A Loss...

Contrary To What People Think, I Slave Over My Books.

Only Another Writer, Someone Who Had Worked His Heart Out On A Good Book Which Sold Three Thousand Copies, Could Appreciate The Thrill That Overcame Me One April Morning In 1973 When Dean Rivers Of Our Small College In Georgia Appeared At My Classroom Door