Not Necessarily Narrow So Much As Impatient,

A Light Snow, A Snow So Faint And Small-bodied That It Seems Nothing More Than A Manifestation Of The Cold.

I'd Given Up Everything To Be A Writer, And If I Didn't Then Go On To Do That - To Write - Then I Didn't Know What Would Happen To Me.

One Is Seduced And Battered In Turn. The Result Is Presumably Wisdom. Wisdom! We Are Clinging To Life Like Lizards. Why Is It So Difficult To Assemble Those Things That Really Matter In Life And To Dwell Among Them Only? I Am Referring To Certain Landscapes, Persons, Beasts, Books, Rooms, Meteorological Conditions, Fruits. In Fact, I Insist On It. A Letter Is Like A Poem, It Leaps Into Life And Shows Very Clearly The Marks, Perhaps I Should Say Thumbprints, Of An Unwilling Or Unready Composer.

When I'm Filling Notebooks I'm Trying To Pin Down What I'm Really Interested In And To Find Those Details That Are So Hard To Come By, Details That I Can Look At And Believe Are Right On The Mark. Things Which Bring A Novel To Life. They Can Take A While To Come.

I Don't Hold Myself Dictated To By What Everyone Is Saying, By The Tabloids Or Popular Opinion. I Don't Like Bourgeois Values. I Say You Find Your Own Way To Live.