My Book Is Traditional. It Runs Counter

What Sustains Me Is To Be With My Family And To Write.

To Deny That There Was This Dark Side Of Life Would Be Like Pretending That The Cold Of Winter Was Somehow Only A Temporary Illusion, A Way Station On The Way To The Higher "reality" Of Long, Warm, Pleasant Summers. But Summer, It Turned Out, Was No More Real Than The Snow That Melted In Wintertime.

He Didn't Like Very Many People Any More, Or Very Many Things Either. He Preferred Not To Be This Way, But There It Was, He Was Like That. His Cynicism, A Veteran's Cynicism, Was A Thing That Disturbed Him All The Time.

Fiction Is Socially Meaningful.

It's A Brooding Melancholy That Haunts Me.