If You Write Enough, You Begin To

It Is Always An Accident That Saves Us. It Is Someone We Have Never Seen.

Of Them All, It Was The True Love. Of Them All, It Was The Best. That Other Sumptuous Love Which Made One Drunk, Which One Longed For, Envied, Believed In, That Was Not Life. It Was What Life Was Seeking; It Was A Suspension Of Life. But To Be Close To A Child, For Whom One Spent Everything, Whose Life Was Protected And Nourished By One's Own, To Have That Child Beside One, At Peace, Was The Real, The Deepest, The Only Joy.

When I'm Filling Notebooks I'm Trying To Pin Down What I'm Really Interested In And To Find Those Details That Are So Hard To Come By, Details That I Can Look At And Believe Are Right On The Mark. Things Which Bring A Novel To Life. They Can Take A While To Come.

One Alters The Past To Form The Future But There Is A Real Significance To The Pattern Which Finally Appears, Which Resists All Further Change.

In A Certain Sense, A Writer Is An Exile, An Outsider, Always Reporting On Things, And It Is Part Of His Life To Keep On The Move. Travel Is Natural.