Sometimes, Walking With A Friend, I Forget

I Saw My Ex-husband In The Street. I Was Sitting On The Steps Of The New Library. Hello, My Life, I Said. We Had Once Been Married For Twenty-seven Years, So I Felt Justified. He Said, What? What Life? No Life Of Mine.

You Become A Writer Because You Need To Become A Writer - Nothing Else.

I Didn't Intend. The Word "intend" Is The Wrong Word For What I Do. It's Just That It's Something You Do, And You Can't Not Do. If You Want To Do It, And You Don't Intend To, You Do It Anyway. The Word "intend" Is Wrong. The Word "pressure" Is Right. It's Like Any Art Form.

But What's A Writer For? The Whole Point Is To Put Yourself Into Other Lives, Other Heads-writers Have Always Done That. If You Screw Up, So Someone Will Tell You, That's All.

I Loved The Comradeship Of The Sixties And The Seventies, And I Still Maintain Friendships With The People I Worked With Then - The Ones That Are Still Alive. That's One Of The Great Gifts Of Our Political Movements, Great Friendships . . . And Also A Few Enmities.