Read At The Level At Which You

I Don't Really Know Where My Ideas Come From. I Start With A Time And A Place. That's What I Need To Get Started, And An Intellectual Question.

We Stand There, Quiet. My Questions All Seem Wrong: How Did You Get So Old? Was It All At Once, In A Day, Or Did You Peter Out Bit By Bit? When Did You Stop Having Parties? Did Everyone Else Get Old Too, Or Was It Just You? Are Other People Still Here, Hiding In The Palm Trees Or Holding Their Breath Underwater? When Did You Last Swim Your Laps? Do Your Bones Hurt? Did You Know This Was Coming And Hide That You Knew, Or Did It Ambush You From Behind?

[i]t May Be That A Crowd At A Particular Moment Of History Creates The Object To Justify Its Gathering.

A Swell Of Gratitude And Appreciation For His Assistant, As Opposed To The Murderous Rage He Felt Toward The Rest Of His Staff

There's Something Very Strange About Associating Me With That Prize. I Had Hoped For It In A More Directed Way As A Journalist. Somehow As A Journalist You Know There Are Pulitzers Out There And You Can Work Hard And Get One. To Win It For Fiction Seems Unbelievable.