I Think That In Order To Write

America -- Rather, The United States -- Seems To Me To Be The Jew Among The Nations. It Is Resourceful, Adaptable, Maligned, Envied, Feared, Imposed Upon. It Is Warm-hearted, Over-friendly; Quick-witted, Lavish, Colorful; Given To Extravagant Speech And Gestures; Its People Are Travelers And Wanderers By Nature, Moving, Shifting, Restless; Swarming In Fords, In Ocean Liners; Craving Entertainment; Volatile. The Chuckle Among The Nations Of The World.

Living The Past Is A Dull And Lonely Business; Looking Back Strains The Neck Muscles, Causing You To Bump Into People Not Going Your Way.

The Writer Is A Writer Because He Cannot Help It. It Is A Compulsion.

I Think In Order To Write Really Well And Convincingly, One Must Be Somewhat Poisoned By Emotion, Dislike, Displeasure, Resentment, Fault-finding, Imagination, Passionate Remonstrance, A Sense Of Injustice-they All Make Fine Fuel.

Wasn't Marriage, Like Life, Unstimulating And Unprofitable And Somewhat Empty When Too Well Ordered And Protected And Guarded. Wasn't It Finer, More Splendid, More Nourishing, When It Was, Like Life Itself, A Mixture Of The Sordid And The Magnificent; Of Mud And Stars; Of Earth And Flowers; Of Love And Hate And Laughter And Tears And Ugliness And Beauty And Hurt.