Me, My Literary Reputation Is Mostly Abroad,

Death And I Are Head To Head In A Total Collision, Pure And Mutual Distaste.

I Awake With A Not Entirely Sickened Knowledge That I Am Merely Young Again And In A Funny Way At Peace, An Observer Who Is Aware Of Time's Chariot, Aware That Some Metamorphosis Has Occurred.

Memory, So Complete And Clear Or So Evasive, Has To Be Ended, Has To Be Put Aside, As If One Were Leaving A Chapel And Bringing The Prayer To An End In One's Head.

My Protagonists Are My Mother's Voice And The Mind I Had When I Was Thirteen.

I Can't Change The Past, And I Don't Think I Would. I Don't Expect To Be Understood. I Like What I've Written, The Stories And Two Novels. If I Had To Give Up What I've Written In Order To Be Clear Of This Disease, I Wouldn't Do It.