One Reason Writers Write Is Out Of

Comedy Springs From The Ludicrous; But The Ludicrous Is Stuck In The Muck Of Reality, Resolutely Hostile To What Is Impossible.

To Want To Be What One Can Be Is Purpose In Life.

What We Think We Are Surely Going To Do, We Don't Do; And What We Never Intended To Do, We May One Day Notice That We Have Done, And Done, And Done.

Fiction Does Not Invent Out Of A Vacuum, But It Invents; And What It Invents Is, First, The Fabric And Cadence Of Language, And Then A Slant Of Idea That Sails Out Of These As A Fin Lifts From The Sea.

In 1952, I Had Gone To England On A Literary Pilgrimage, But What I Also Saw, Even At That Distance From The Blitz, Were Bombed-out Ruins And An Enervated Society, While The Continent Was Still, Psychologically, In The Grip Of Its Recent Atrocities.