My Writing Is Nothing, My Boxing Is

A Continent Ages Quickly Once We Come. The Natives Live In Harmony With It. But The Foreigner Destroys, Cuts Down The Trees, Drains The Water, So That The Water Supply Is Altered, And In A Short Time The Soil, Once The Sod Is Turned Under, Is Cropped Out And, Next, It Starts To Blow Away As It Has Blown Away In Every Old Country And As I Had Seen It Start To Blow In Canada. The Earth Gets Tired Of Being Exploited.

It Is A Hell Of A Thing To Be Hungry In Your Own House.

All Bad Writers Are In Love With The Epic.

I Drank A Bottle Of Wine For Company. It Was Chateau Margaux. It Was Pleasant To Be Drinking Slowly And To Be Tasting The Wine And To Be Drinking Alone. A Bottle Of Wine Was Good Company.

When I Am Working On A Book Or A Story I Write Every Morning As Soon After First Light As Possible. There Is No One To Disturb You And It Is Cool Or Cold And You Come To Your Work And Warm As You Write. . . .when You Stop You Are As Empty, And At The Same Time Never Empty But Filling, As When You Have E Made Love To Someone You Love. Nothing Can Hurt You, Nothing Can Happen, Nothing Means Anything Until The Next Day When You Do It Again. It Is The Wait Until The Next Day That Is Hard To Get Through.