The Short Story Is The Literature Of

Then It Is Dark; It Is A Night Where Kings In Golden Suits Ride Elephants Over The Mountains.

My God, The Suburbs! They Encircled The City's Boundaries Like Enemy Territory And We Thought Of Them As A Loss Of Privacy, A Cesspool Of Conformity And A Life Of Indescribable Dreariness In Some Split-level Village Where The Place Name Appeared In The New York Times Only When Some Bored Housewife Blew Off Her Head With A Shotgun.

How Can We Describe The Most Exalted Experience Of Our Physical Lives [sex], As If-jack, Wrench, Hubcap, And Nuts-we Were Describing The Changing Of A Flat Tire?

Novels Are About Men And Women And Children And Dogs, Not Politics.

The Novel Remains For Me One Of The Few Forms Where We Can Record Man's Complexity And The Strength And Decency Of His Longings.