To Translate A Poem From Thinking Into

Sometimes, Walking With A Friend, I Forget The World.

My Family Were Russian Jews. They Got You To Read As Soon As You Could. And Then Assumed You Would Read A Lot. People Didn't Really Tell Stories But They Were Good Talkers. That's Important For A Writer, To Hear Speakers.

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.

My Vocabulary Is Adequate For Writing Notes And Keeping Journals But Absolutely Useless For An Active Moral Life.

Everyone, Real Or Invented, Deserves The Open Destiny Of Life.