Writing About Writing Is A Bit Like

Hardly Anyone About Whom I Deeply Care At All Resembles Anyone Else I Have Ever Met, Or Heard Of, Or Read About In Literature.

There Is A Difference, Of Course, Between Real Sentiment And The Trash Of Shared Experience.

In Almost Every Thriller, A Point Is Reached When Someone, Usually Calling From A Phone Booth, Telephones With A Vital Piece Of Information, Which He Cannot Divulge By Phone. By The Time The Hero Arrives At The Place Where They Had Arranged To Meet, The Caller Is Dead, Or Too Near Death To Tell. There Is Never An Explanation For The Reluctance Of The Caller To Impart His Message In The First Place.

Self-pity” Is Just Sadness, I Think, In The Pejorative.

Lyda Was An Exuberant, Even A Dramatic Gardener.... She Was Always Holding Up A Lettuce Or A Bunch Of Radishes With An Air Of Resolute Courage, As Though She Had Shot Them Herself.