Communists Are The Last Optimists.

From Ernest Hemingway's Stories I Learned To Listen Within My Stories For What Went Unsaid By My Characters.

Responsibility Is What Awaits Outside The Eden Of Creativity.

Exile As A Mode Of Genius No Longer Exists; In Place Of Joyce We Have The Fragments Of Work Appearing In Index On Censorship.

Perhaps There Is No Other Way Of Reaching Some Understanding Of Being Than Through Art? Writers Themselves Don't Analyze What They Do; To Analyze Would Be To Look Down While Crossing A Canyon On A Tightrope. To Say This Is Not To Mystify The Process Of Writing But To Make An Image Out Of The Intense Inner Concentration The Writer Must Have To Cross The Chasms Of The Aleatory And Make Them The Word's Own, As An Explorer Plants A Flag.

Literature Is One Of The Few Areas Left Where Black And White Feel Some Identity Of Purpose; We All Struggle Under Censorship.