I Believe That A Writer Has To

That’s How Ptolemy Imagined The Disposition Of His Memories, His Thoughts: They Were Still His, Still In The Range Of His Thinking, But They Were, Many And Most Of Them, Locked On The Other Side A Closed Door That He’s Lost The Key For. So His Memory Became Like Secrets Held Away From His Own Mind. But These Secrets Were Noisy Things; They Babbled And Muttered Behind The Door, And So If He Listened Closely He Might Catch A Snatch Of Something He Once Knew Well.

Readers No Longer Need Novelists To Tell Us What It's Like To Cross The World On A Ship Or Fight A War. In The Twenty-first Century, We Get That Information In Other Ways. The Thing That's Still A Mystery To Us Is The Human Heart. What We Want Is To Understand People, What They're Doing, And Why They're Doing It.

Our Collective Freedom... Depends On Our Ability To Defend The Rights Of Others.

Love Makes You Blind To Your Own Survival. And If It Doesn't Then It's Not Love At All.

There's Many Things That I Am. And All Of Those Things Come Together At Some Point. If Somebody Wants To Limit Me, You Know And They'll Say, 'well, This Is Walter Mosley, The Mystery Writer.' I Don't Like That. Because I Do Many Things.