I Prize The Depression, For Instance, Because

When You Grow Up In A Totally Segregated Society, Where Everybody Around You Believes That Segregation Is Proper, You Have A Hard Time. You Can't Believe How Much It's A Part Of Your Thinking.

I Don't Want Anything To Do With Anything Mechanical Between Me And The Paper, Including A Typewriter, And I Don't Even Want A Fountain Pen Between Me And The Paper.

North Was Only A Direction Indicated By A Compass--if A Man Had One, That Is, For Otherwise There Was No North Or South Or East Or West; There Was Only The Brooding Desolation.

The Point I Would Make Is That The Novelist And The Historian Are Seeking The Same Thing: The Truth – Not A Different Truth: The Same Truth – Only They Reach It, Or Try To Reach It, By Different Routes. Whether The Event Took Place In A World Now Gone To Dust, Preserved By Documents And Evaluated By Scholarship, Or In The Imagination, Preserved By Memory And Distilled By The Creative Process, They Both Want To Tell Us How It Was: To Re-create It, By Their Separate Methods, And Make It Live Again In The World Around Them.

A Rich Man's War And A Poor Man's Fight.