Life Is Weather. Life Is Meals.

Certain Things I Remember Exactly As They Were. They Are Merely Discolored A Bit By Time, Like Coins In The Pocket Of A Forgotten Suit. Most Of The Details, Though, Have Long Since Been Transformed Or Rearranged To Bring Others Of Them Forward. Some, In Fact, Are Obviously Counterfeit; They Are No Less Important. One Alters The Past To Form The Future.

My Idea Of Writing Is Of Unflinching And Continual Effort, Somehow Trying To Find The Right Words Until You Reach A Point Where You Can Make No Further Progress And You Either Have Something Or You Don’t.

I Don't Fear Death. I'm Not Obsessed With It The Way Everybody Else Seems To Be. It's Wrong To Say "everybody," But In Literature I See It All The Time - Preoccupation With It, Philosophical Preoccupation, In Fact. That's A Principle Element Of Literature And Philosophy, Often Cited As The Main Element, The Only Real Element. I Say Give It Up.

I Always Knew Writing A Novel Was A Great Thing.

We Dash The Black River, Its Flats Smooth As Stone. Not A Ship, Not A Dinghy, Not One Cry Of White. The Water Lies Broken, Cracked From The Wind. This Great Estuary Is Wide, Endless. The River Is Brackish, Blue With The Cold. It Passes Beneath Us Blurring. The Sea Birds Hang Above It, They Wheel, Disappear. We Flash The Wide River, A Dream Of The Past. The Deeps Fall Behind, The Bottom Is Paling The Surface, We Rush By The Shallows, Boats Beached For Winter, Desolate Piers. And On Wings Like The Gulls, Soar Up, Turn, Look Back.