Anger Is Its Own Excuse And Its

Somebody Said Writing Is Easy, You Just Sit Down At Your Typewriter And Open A Vein. It Depends On The Book. Some, I Have To Do Quite A Lot Of Research, Which I Like. Others Are Much Closer To Me.

I Think Every Creative Impulse That A Working Writer, Or Artist Of Any Sort Has, Comes Out Of That Dark Old Country Where Dreams Come From.

That Sinuous Southern Life, That Oblique And Slow And Complicated Old Beauty, That Warm Thick Air And Blood Warm Sea, That Place Of Mists And Languor And Fragrant Richness.

I Could Run Nearly Naked On A Hot, Windy Beach And Plunge Without Care Into A Running Diamond Sea; Roll On The Sand And Fling My Arms Wide To The Sun And Still Be What I Was...young.

Didn't I Say I'd Always Be Your Same Stars? If You Get To Missing Me, Just Look Up.