I Thought Of Myself As A Writer

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.

Communists Have No Respect For People, Only For Positions.

The Difference Between Socrates And Jesus Is That No One Had Ever Been Put To Death In Socrates' Name. And That Is Because Socrates' Ideas Were Never Made Law. Law, In Whatever Name, Protects Privilege.

It Was Evident To Him That The World Composed And Recomposed Itself Constantly In An Endless Process Of Dissatisfaction.

I've Known Several Cases Of Writers Who Decide To Write About Something And They Research The Hell Out Of It And When They're Ready To Write, They Can't Move Because They Are So Burdened. I Start Writing. Whatever I Need Somehow Comes To Hand.