We’d Hoped For Love Of A Different

One Always Has A Better Book In One's Mind Than One Can Manage To Get Onto Paper.

Here Is The World, And You Live In It, And Are Grateful. You Try To Be Grateful.

I Seem To Produce A Novel Approximately Once Every Three Years.

It's The City's Crush And Heave That Move You; Its Intricacy; Its Endless Life. You Know The Story About Manhattan As A Wilderness Purchased For Strings Of Beads, But You Find It Impossible Not To Believe That It Has Always Been A City; That If You Dug Beneath It You Would Find The Ruins Of Another, Older City, And Then Another And Another.

If You've Really Loved A Book, Or A Movie For That Matter, Really Loved It, What You Want Is That Same Book Again, But As If You've Never Read It. And When You Get Something Unfamiliar, You Feel Betrayed.