It Is A Bad Idea To Live

I Was 46 When 'cold Mountain' Came Out. I Was Settled. We Had A Nice House In Raleigh And A Horse Farm.

I Do The Same Things I Did When I Was 12 Years Old: I Ride Bikes, I Read Books, I Walk In The Woods. And I Listen To Music.

One Time At The University Of Colorado, At A Faculty Dinner, This Professor Said To Me, 'well, My Goodness, A Boy From Appa-lay-chee-a With A Ph.d!' The Dinner Was In Her House. And I Said, 'my Grandparents Didn't Have Indoor Plumbing, But They Had More Books In Their House Than You Do.' I Was A Little Insulted By The Appa-lay-chee-a Business.

That's Just Pain She Said. It Goes Eventually. And When It's Gone, There's No Lasting Memory. Not The Worst Of It Anyway. It Fades. Our Minds Aren't Made To Hold On To The Particulars Of Pain The Way We Do Bliss. It's A Gift God Gives Us, A Sign Of His Care For Us.

While Writing Cold Mountain, I Held Maps Of Two Geographies, Two Worlds, In My Mind As I Wrote. One Was An Early Map Of North Carolina. Overlaying It, Though, Was An Imagined Map Of The Landscape Jack Travels In The Southern Appalachian Folktales. He's Much The Same Jack Who Climbs The Beanstalk, Vulnerable And Clever And Opportunistic.