It Isn't That There's No Right And

I Wish My Prose To Be Transparent—i Don't Want The Reader To Stumble Over Me; I Want Him To Look Through What I'm Saying To What I'm Describing. I Don't Want Him Ever To Say, Oh, Goodness, How Nicely Written This Is. That Would Be A Failure.

I Could Meet Dreadful People And End Up Seeing The World Through Their Eyes, Seeing Their Frailties, Their Needs.

If A Writer Doesn't Generate Hostility, He Is Dead.

Whatever Extra There Is In Me At Any Given Moment Isn't Fully Formed. I Am Hardly Aware Of It; It Awaits The Next Book. It Will - With Luck - Come To Me During The Actual Writing, And It Will Take Me By Surprise

I Know My Father And My Mother, But Beyond That I Cannot Go. My Ancestry Is Blurred.