It Was All In My Head And

He Believed That Life, True Life, Was Something That Was Stored In Music. True Life Was Kept Safe In The Lines Of Tchaikovsky's Eugene Onegin While You Went Out In The World And Met The Obligations Required Of You. Certainly He Knew (though Did Not Completely Understand) That Opera Wasn't For Everyone, But For Everyone He Hoped There Was Something. The Records He Cherished, The Rare Opportunities To See A Live Performance, Those Were The Marks By Which He Gauged His Ability To Love.

I Am The Person Who Is Appropriating Stories That Are Not Mine And Turning Them Into A Book.

It Is Said The Sesta Is One Of The Only Gifts The Europeans Brought To South America, But I Imagine The Brazilians Could Have Figured Out How To Sleep In The Afternoon Without Having To Endure Centuries Of Murder And Enslavement.

If You Want To Write And Can't Figure Out How To Do It, Try This: Pick An Amount Of Time To Sit At Your Desk Every Day. Start With Twenty Minutes, Say, And Work Up As Quickly As Possible To As Much Time As You Can Spare. Do You Really Want To Write? Sit For Two Hours A Day.

I Will Go And Speak At Rotary Clubs. I Will Go And Speak At Schools. I'm So Much In The Community, But In A Way That I Love. It's Been Such A Positive Thing.