A Certain Bohemian, Good-witch Sort Of Charm

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.

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

Remember, How Often The Great Art Of The Past Didn't Look Great At First, How Often It Didn't Look Like Art At All; How Much Easier It Is, Decades Or Centuries Later, To Adore It, Not Only Because It Is, In Fact, Great But Because It's Still Here; Because The Inevitable Little Errors And Infelicities Tend To Recede In An Object That's Survived The War Of 1812, The Eruption Of Krakatoa, The Rise And Fall Of Nazism.

The Lives Great Artists Live And The Books They Write Are Two Very Different Things.

I Am Beginning To Understand The True Difference Between Youth And Age. Young People Have Time To Make Plans And Think Of New Ideas. Older People Need Their Whole Energy To Keep Up With What’s Already Been Set In Motion.