I Like Poking My Nose Into Other

Writers Seem To Me To Be People Who Need To Retire From Social Life And Do A Lot Of Thinking About What's Happened - Almost To Calm Themselves.

The Only Thing That I Was Equipped For With My Very Mediocre College Arts Degree Was To Get A Job In Teaching.

On Melbourne Summer Mornings The Green Trams Go Rolling In Stately Progress Down Tunnels Thick With Leaves: The Bright Air Carries Along The Avenue Their Patient Chime, The Chattering Of Their Wheels.

I Think Writers Are Very Anxious.

I'm Full Of Restlessness. Not Lonely, Exactly - My Head Is Racing With Ideas. But It Is That Old Treacherous Feeling That Real Life Is Happening Somewhere Else, And I'm Left Out.