In My Writing I'm Trying To Explore

Why Is A Picture Of Something Real Eventually More Exciting Than The Thing Itself?

I Understood That I Was Inventing Myself, And That I Was Doing This More In The Way Of A Painter Than In The Way Of A Scientist. I Could Not Count On Precision Or Calculation; I Could Only Count On Intuition.

What I Really Want To Write About Is Injustice And Justice, And The Different Ways Human Beings Organize The Two.

In Isolation I Ruthlessly Plow The Deep Silences, Seeking My Opportunities Like A Miner Seeking Veins Of Treasures. In What Shallow Glimmering Space Shall I Find What Glimmering Glory?

I've Written A Book About My Mother, And I Don't Remember Anyone Going To Antigua Or Calling Up My Mother And Verifying Her Life. There Is Something About This Book That Drives People Mad With The Autobiographical Question.