When I Was A Child, We Seemed

Perhaps There Is No Other Way Of Reaching Some Understanding Of Being Than Through Art? Writers Themselves Don't Analyze What They Do; To Analyze Would Be To Look Down While Crossing A Canyon On A Tightrope. To Say This Is Not To Mystify The Process Of Writing But To Make An Image Out Of The Intense Inner Concentration The Writer Must Have To Cross The Chasms Of The Aleatory And Make Them The Word's Own, As An Explorer Plants A Flag.

Where Do Whites Fit In The New Africa? Nowhere, I'm Inclined To Sayand I Do Believe That It Is True That Even The Gentlest And Most Westernised Africans Would Like The Emotional Idea Of The Continent Entirely Without The Complication Of The Presence Of The White Man For A Generation Or Two. But Nowhere, As An Answer For Us Whites, Is In The Same Category As Remarks Like What's The Use Of Living? In The Face Of The Threat Of Atomic Radiation. We Are Living; We Are In Africa.

Art Defies Defeat By Its Very Existence, Representing The Celebration Of Life, In Spite Of All Attempts To Degrade And Destroy It.

In A Certain Sense A Writer Is 'selected' By His Subject - His Subject Being The Consciousness Of His Own Era.

The Country Of The Tourist Pamphlet Always Is Another Country, An Embarrassing Abstraction Of The Desirable That, Thank God, Does Not Exist On This Planet, Where There Are Always Ants And Bad Smells And Empty Coca-cola Bottles To Keep The Grubby Finger-print Of Reality Upon The Beautiful.