Fiction Must Compete With First-rate Reporting. If

To Disguise Nothing, To Conceal Nothing, To Write About Those Things That Are Closest To Our Pain, Our Happiness; To Write About Our Sexual Clumsiness, The Agonies Of Tantalus, The Depth Of Our Discouragement-what We Glimpse In Our Dreams-our Despair. To Write About The Foolish Agonies Of Anxiety, The Refreshment Of Our Strength When These Are Ended; To Write About Our Painful Search For Self, Jeopardized By A Stranger In The Post Office, A Half-seen Face In A Train Window, To Write About The Continents And Populations Of Our Dreams, About Love And Death, Good And Evil, The End Of The World.

Without A Reader, I Cannot Write. It's Like A Kiss: They Cannot Be Done Alone.

There Is A Terrible Sameness To The Euphoria Of Alcohol And The Euphoria Of Metaphor.

The Writer Cultivates, Extends, Raises And Inflates His Imagination, Sure That This Is His Destiny, His Usefulness, His Contribution To The Understanding Of Good And Evil. As He Inflates His Imagination He Inflates His Capacity For Evil.

The Main Emotion Of The Adult American Who Has Had All The Advantages Of Wealth, Education, And Culture Is Disappointment.