This (vietnam) Was A Land Of Rebellious

Indifference And Pride Look Very Much Alike, And He Probably Thought I Was Proud.

So Much In Writing Depends On The Superficiality Of One's Days. One May Be Preoccupied With Shopping And Income Tax Returns And Chance Conversations, But The Stream Of The Unconscious Continues To Flow Undisturbed, Solving Problems, Planning Ahead: One Sits Down Sterile And Dispirited At The Desk, And Suddenly The Words Come As Though From The Air: The Situations That Seemed Blocked In A Hopeless Impasse Move Forward: The Work Has Been Done While One Slept Or Shopped Or Talked With Friends.

The Subject Of A Novel Is Not The Plot. Who Remembers What Happened To Lucien De Rebempre In The End?

That Instinct For Human Character That Is Perhaps Inherent In An Imaginative Writer.

Grief And Disappointment Are Like Hate: They Make Men Ugly With Self-pity And Bitterness. And How Selfish They Make Us Too.