There's Something So Showy About Desperation, It

Nobody Speaks The Truth When There's Something They Must Have.

Without Fiction, Either Life Would Be Insufficient Or The Winds From The North Would Blow Too Cold.

No, It Is Not Only Our Fate But Our Business To Lose Innocence, And Once We Have Lost That, It Is Futile To Attempt A Picnic In Eden.

As A Novelist, I Cannot Occupy Myself With "characters," Or At Any Rate Central Ones, Who Lack Panache, In One Or Another Sense, Who Would Be Incapable Of A Major Action Or A Major Passion, Or Who Have Not A Touch Of The Ambiguity, The Ultimate Unaccountability, The Enlarging Mistiness Of Persons "in History." History, As More Austerely I Now Know It, Is Not Romantic. But I Am.

If You Look At Life One Way, There Is Always Cause For Alarm.