In Charleston, More Than Elsewhere, You Get

Red Hook Road Made Me Happy, And Happy To Be Alive. It Took Me Out Of My Home On The Coast Of South Carolina, Placed Me In The Town Along Red Hook Road, And Changed Me The Way Good Books Always Do.

I've Always Found Paranoia To Be A Perfectly Defensible Position.

South Carolina Is Not A State; It Is A Cult.

Anyone Who Knows Me Well Must Understand And Be Sympathetic To My Genuine Need To Be My Own Greatest Hero. It Is Not A Flaw Of Character; It Is A Catastrophe.

Do You Think That Hemingway Knew He Was A Writer At Twenty Years Old? No, He Did Not. Or Fitzgerald, Or Wolfe. This Is A Difficult Concept To Grasp. Hemingway Didn't Know He Was Ernest Hemingway When He Was A Young Man. Faulkner Didn't Know He Was William Faulkner. But They Had To Take The First Step. They Had To Call Themselves Writers. That Is The First Revolutionary Act A Writer Has To Make. It Takes Courage. But It's Necessary