In Fiction, You Have A Rough Idea

Figures Dark Beneath Their Loads Pass Down The Far Bank Of The River, Rendered Immortal By The Streak Of Sunset Upon Their Shoulders

For Some Time I Watch The Coming Of The Night? Above Is The Glistening Galaxy Of Childhood, Now Hidden In The Western World By Air Pollution And The Glare Of Artificial Light; For My Children's Children, The Power, Peace And Healing Of The Night Will Be Obliterated.

I Think In Any Writing You're Paying Attention To Detail.

It's A Simplification To Say That The Men [during Stone Age] Went To War To Maintain Their Dominance Over The Women. The Men Would Help Dig Agricultural Ditches Because They Were Superb Farmers. That Was Very Heavy Lifting Work. But Then They Just Preened Themselves, And Put Bird-of-paradise Plumes [in Their Hair], And Smoked Dope.

In Nonfiction, You Have That Limitation, That Constraint, Of Telling The Truth.