The Sixties Were Different In An Isolated

So Of Course Time Is Necessary. But Nevertheless Damn Painful, For It Transforms All The Pieces Of Your Life - Joy And Sorrow, Youth And Age, Love And Hate, Terror And Bliss - From Fire Into Smoke Rising Up The Air And Dissipating On A Breeze.

Verbs. All Of Them Tiring.

And Then She Thought That You Went On Living One Day After Another, And In Time You Were Somebody Else, Your Previous Self Only Like A Close Relative, A Sister Or Brother, With Whom You Shared A Past. But A Different Person, A Separate Life. Certainly Neither She Nor Inman Were The People They Had Been The Last Time They Were Together. And She Believed Maybe She Liked Them Both Better Now.

I've Never Been Very Attached To Genre Labels And Never Set Out Intentionally To Write Historic Fiction. Besides, What You Consider Historic Depends On How Far Back Your Memory Extends.

Thinking: This Journey Will Be The Axle Of My Life.