I Listen Mostly To Classical Music.

The Land Itself, Of Course, Was Careless Of Its Name. It Still Is. You Can Call It What You Like, Fight All The Wars You Want In Its Name. Change Its Name Altogether If You Like. The Land Is Still Unblinking Under The African Sky. It Will Absorb White Man's Blood And The Blood Of African Men, It Will Absorb Blood From Slaughtered Cattle And The Blood From A Woman's Birthing With Equal Thirst. It Doesn't Care.

You Learn Not To Mourn Every Little Thing Out Here, Or You’d Never, Ever Stop Grieving.

It's A Long Day's Drive Any Way You Look At It. With A Man Who Has Taken Your Sins - Real And Imagined - And Stitched Them Onto The Sackcloth Of His Own Soul, It Is Endless.

There's A Point At Which Writing A Book, Or A Long Article, Begins To Feel Like Mental Labor, And It's Too Painful To Connect In The World In Any Real Way Mid-process. The Only Way To Survive Is To Write Until It Is All Said And Done.

People Who Disagree With His Excellency, The President For Life And 'chief Of Chiefs,' Are Frequently Found To Be The Victims Of Car Crashes (their Bodies Mysteriously Riddled With Bullets); Or Dead In Their Beds Of Heart Attacks (their Bodies Mysteriously Riddled With Bullets); Or The Recipients Of Some Not-quite-fresh Seafood (their Bodies Mysteriously Riddled With Bullets).