In 1957, I Decided: Write Or Perish.

I'm A Frotteur, Someone Who Likes To Rub Words In His Hand, To Turn Them Around And Feel Them, To Wonder If That Really Is The Best Word Possible.

In A Certain Sense, A Writer Is An Exile, An Outsider, Always Reporting On Things, And It Is Part Of His Life To Keep On The Move. Travel Is Natural.

Not Necessarily Narrow So Much As Impatient, Intense.

A Writer Writes A Book. People Read It. You Don't Know What They're Reading, Really. You Read A Review And Think, "that Is So Inaccurate. You Can't Have Been Reading My Book With Any Kind Of Attention, Because That Is All Wrong, That's Even The Wrong Name You're Including There." But These Reviewers Have Been Diminished In Importance, The Work Is So Little Respected. If You're Reviewed By A Real Critic, By James Wood Or Louis Menand, Then You Get Something That Is Informed, Interesting, And Highly Articulate. But The Average Review Doesn't Have That Kind Of Depth Anymore.

Sometimes You Are Aware When Your Great Moments Are Happening, And Sometimes They Rise From The Past. Perhaps It's The Same With People.