Sometimes, Walking With A Friend, I Forget

To Translate A Poem From Thinking Into English Takes All Night.

I Begin By Writing Paragraphs That Don’t Have An Immediate Relation To A Plot. The Sound Of The Story Comes First.

We Write About What We Don't Know About What We Know.

This Hill Crossed With Broken Pines And Maples Lumpy With The Burial Mounds Of Uprooted Hemlocks (hurricane Of '38) Out Of Their Rotting Hearts Generations Rise Trying Once More To Become The Forest Just Beyond Them Tall Enough To Be Called Trees In Their Youth Like Aspen A Bouquet Of Young Beech Is Gathered They Still Wear Last Summer's Leaves The Lightest Brown Almost Translucent How Their Stubbornness Has Decorated The Winter Woods.

I Know I've Done Good Work. I've Been Very Serious About My Writing, And I've Done The Best That I Could. But I Don't Feel That I've Done More Than I Should Have. In Fact, I've Done Less Than I Should Have.