Nothing Factual That I Write Or Say

September 2001. A Sunny Day In New York. Many Of Us Who Are Writers Were At Work On The Transformation Of Life Into A Poem, Story, A Chapter Of A Novel, When Terror Pounced From The Sky, And The World Made Witness To It.

You Can't Change A Regime On The Basis Of Compassion. There's Got To Be Something Harder.

Humans, The Only Self-regarding Animals, Blessed Or Cursed With This Torturing Higher Faculty, Have Always Wanted To Know Why.

I Cannot Live With Someone Who Can't Live Without Me.

Perhaps There Is No Other Way Of Reaching Some Understanding Of Being Than Through Art? Writers Themselves Don't Analyze What They Do; To Analyze Would Be To Look Down While Crossing A Canyon On A Tightrope. To Say This Is Not To Mystify The Process Of Writing But To Make An Image Out Of The Intense Inner Concentration The Writer Must Have To Cross The Chasms Of The Aleatory And Make Them The Word's Own, As An Explorer Plants A Flag.