Wherever I Travel I'm Too Late. The

If You're Writing A Novel, You're In A Room For Three Or Four Years. There's Not Much Coming In From The Outside.

Wherever I Travel I'm Too Late. The Orgy Has Moved Elsewhere.

My Enduring Feeling About René Lévesque Is That If He Had Chosen To Hang Me, Even As He Tightened The Rope Round My Neck, He Would Have Complained About How Humiliating It Was For Him To Spring The Trapdoor. And Then, Once I Was Swinging In The Wind, He Would Blame My Ghost For Having Obliged Him To Murder, Thereby Imposing A Guilt Trip On A Sweet, Self-effacing, Downtrodden Francophone.

Fundamentally, All Writing Is About The Same Thing; It's About Dying, About The Brief Flicker Of Time We Have Here, And The Frustration That It Creates.

I Don't Hold With Shamans, Witch Doctors, Or Psychiatrists. Shakespeare, Tolstoy, Or Even Dickens, Understood More About The Human Condition Than Ever Occurred To Any Of You. You Overrated Bunch Of Charlatans Deal With The Grammar Of Human Problems, And The Writers I've Mentioned With The Essence.