Oh, All You Immigrants And Visionaries, What

Like My Hero Virginia Woolf, I Do Lack Confidence. I Always Find That The Novel I'm Finishing, Even If It's Turned Out Fairly Well, Is Not The Novel I Had In My Mind. I Think A Lot Of Writers Must Negotiate This, And If They Don't Admit It, They're Not Being Honest.

You Want To Give Him The Book Of His Own Life, The Book That Will Locate Him, Parent Him, Arm Him For The Changes.

. . . He Felt Himself Entering A Moment So Real He Could Only Run Toward It, Shouting.

It's The City's Crush And Heave That Move You; Its Intricacy; Its Endless Life. You Know The Story About Manhattan As A Wilderness Purchased For Strings Of Beads, But You Find It Impossible Not To Believe That It Has Always Been A City; That If You Dug Beneath It You Would Find The Ruins Of Another, Older City, And Then Another And Another.

Take Me With You. I Want A Doomed Love. I Want Streets At Night, Wind And Rain, No One Wondering Where I Am.