I'm A Candle Flame That Sways In

Mumbling Obeisance To Abhorrence Of Apartheid Is Like Those Lapsed Believers Who Cross Themselves When Entering A Church.

Perhaps There Is No Other Way Of Reaching Some Understanding Of Being Than Through Art? Writers Themselves Don't Analyze What They Do; To Analyze Would Be To Look Down While Crossing A Canyon On A Tightrope. To Say This Is Not To Mystify The Process Of Writing But To Make An Image Out Of The Intense Inner Concentration The Writer Must Have To Cross The Chasms Of The Aleatory And Make Them The Word's Own, As An Explorer Plants A Flag.

I Couldn't Be Sufficiently Interested In Human Beings To Be A Writer If I Had Contempt For Human Beings.

Communists Are The Last Optimists.

Perhaps The Best Definition Of Progress Would Be The Continuing Efforts Of Men And Women To Narrow The Gap Between The Convenience Of The Powers That Be And The Unwritten Charter.