Tomorrow Country Then, Tomorrow Country Now.

Wherever I Travel I'm Too Late. The Orgy Has Moved Elsewhere.

I Must Speak The Truth, Even At The Risk Of Being Ostracized By My Fellow Scribblers. In Fact, Anticipating Their Rage, I Have Already Applied For A Place In The Canada Council's Witness-protection Program. This Because, Much As It Pains Me To Turn On My Kind, I Fear The Time Has Come To Admit That Far Too Many Celebrated Writers Were Outrageous Liars, Philanderers, Drunks, Druggies, Unsuitable Babysitters, Plagiarists, Psychopaths, Parasites, Cowards, Indifferent Dads Or Moms And Bad Credit Risks.

In, 1950, At The Age, 19 I Dropped Out Of St. George William College In Montreal, As It Then Was, And Sailed For England On The Franconia. Foolishly, No Arrogantly, Believing I Could Put Canada And Its Picayune Problems Behind Me, Never Dreaming It Would Become The Raw Material Of Most Of My Fiction And Non-fiction. Or That I Would Care So Deeply About Its Surviving Intact.

I Work Every Day - Or At Least I Force Myself Into Office Or Room. I May Get Nothing Done, But You Don't Earn Bonuses Without Putting In Time. Nothing May Come For Three Months, But You Don't Earn The Fourth Without It.

Mr. Bernard Died On A Monday, At The Age Of Seventy-five, His Body Wasted. He Lay In State For Two Days In The Lobby Of The Bernard Gursky Tower And, As He Failed To Rise On The Third, He Was Duly Buried.