Life Is An Honor, Albeit Anonymously Delivered.

We Set This House On Fire Forgetting That We Live Within.

Writers Can Write Outside Their Ethnicity Or Sex Depending How Open And Vulnerable They Wish To Be.

This Infantile Sense Of Order Tended To Infect My Life At Large. Up At 5:30 A.m., Coffee, Oatmeal, Perhaps Sausage (homemade), And Fresh Eggs Giving One Of The Yolks To Lola. Listening To Npr And Grieving More Recently Over The Absence Of Bob Edwards Who Was The Sound Of Morning As Surely As Birds. Reading A Paragraph Or Two Of Emerson Or Loren Eiseley To Raise The Level Of My Thinking. Going Out To Feed The Cattle If It Was During Our Six Months Of Bad Weather.

I Asked A French Critic A Couple Of Years Ago Why My Books Did So Well In France. He Said It Was Because In My Novels People Both Act And Think. I Got A Kick Out Of That.

No One Else Can Hold Your Hand Or Take This Voyage Of The Soul For You.