The Arrogance Of The Artist Is A

I Write At Eighty-five For The Same Reasons That Impelled Me To Write At Forty-five; I Was Born With A Passionate Desire To Communicate, To Organize Experience, To Tell Tales That Dramatize The Adventures Which Readers Might Have Had. I Have Been That Ancient Man Who Sat By The Campfire At Night And Regaled The Hunters With Imaginative Recitations About Their Prowess. The Job Of An Apple Tree Is To Bear Apples. The Job Of A Storyteller Is To Tell Stories, And I Have Concentrated On That Obligation.

I Wondered How A Man Ever Got An English Girl Into Bed. What Did They Do With Her Hockey Stick?

The Master In The Art Of Living Makes Little Distinction Between His Work And His Play, His Labor And His Leisure, His Mind And His Body, His Information And His Recreation, His Love And His Religion. He Hardly Knows Which Is Which. He Simply Pursues His Vision Of Excellence At Whatever He Does, Leaving Others To Decide Whether He Is Working Or Playing. To Him He's Always Doing Both.

Millions Upon Millions Of Years Ago, When The Continents Were Already Formed And The Principal Features Of The Earth Had Been Decided, There Existed, Then As Now, One Aspect Of The World That Dwarfed All Other ... A Mighty Ocean, Resting Uneasily To The East Of The Largest Continent, A Restless Ever-changing, Gigantic Body Of Water That Would Later Be Described As Pacific.

I Had Learned Volleyball In The Navy, Where All The Captains And Admirals Wanted To Be Spikers, And I Found Then That A Man Who Can Subdue His Own Desires And Master The Art Of Serving Others Can Make Himself Invaluable. In Choosing Sides The Team Captain Always Chose The Good Spikers On The First And Second Choice, But Then The Spikers Would Grab His Arm And Whisper, 'take Michener.' I Was Never Chosen Lower Than Third, Because I Was Needed. I Wasn't Good, But I Was Faithful.