We Live In A Time When Writers

If Each One Of Us Could Make Just One Other Happy, The Whole World Would Know Happiness.

The Place Smelled Of Fairgrounds, Of Lazy Crowds, Of Nights When You Stayed Out Because You Couldn't Go To Bed, And It Smelled Like New York, Of Its Calm And Brutal Indifference.

One Of Them, For Example, Which Will Probably Haunt Me More Than Any Other Is The Problem Of Communication.

I Saw Mussolini Tirelessly Contemplate A Parade Of Thousands Of Young Men.

We Live In A Time When Writers Do Not Always Have Barriers Around Them