As A Writer, One Is Busy With

He Turns His Back To The Far Shore And Rows Toward It. He Can In This Way Travel Away From, Yet Still See, His House....he Feels He Is Riding A Floating Skeleton...some Birds In The Almost-dark Are Flying As Close To Their Reflections As Possible.

I Want The Marginality To Come Into The Center. This Is The Thing I Was Conscious Of Growing Up, When I Later Lived In England. I Saw All These War Movies That Came Out Shortly After The War, And They Were All About The War Being Fought By Englishmen Or Americans, There Were No Other "allies" In It - From India Or Australia, Etc.

It's A Discovery Of A Story When I Write A Book, A Case Of Inching Ahead On Each Page And Discovering What's Beyond In The Darkness, Beyond Where You're Writing.

He Walked Out Of The Hospital Into The Sun, Into Open Air For The First Time In Months, Out Of The Green-lit Rooms That Lay Like Glass In His Mind. He Stood There Breathing Everything In, The Hurry Of Everyone. First, He Thought, I Need Shoes With Rubber On The Bottom. I Need Gelato.

The Last Three Books Are Much More A Case Of A Moment Of History, What Happened Almost By Accident Or Coincidence, Like Being In The Same Elevator Or Lifeboat.