Sit Around The Bars, Talked To People,

The Ending Is One Of My Blackest, Utterly Without Hope Of Any Sort.

I Was Extraordinarily Lucky. I Wrote A Book Because I Wanted To See If I Could Write A Mystery. Someone Nagged Me Into Sending It To A Contest, Which It Won, After Which I Was Offered A Two-book Contract, Thus Requiring The Writing Of A Second Book.

And I Don't Want To Live Anywhere Where I Am Famous. It Makes Me Very, Very Uncomfortable, Because It Conveys An Advantage Over People, And I Don't Like That.

Sit Around The Bars, Talked To People, Ate In The Restaurants, And Chatted With The Old Ladies On The Street. Fishermen Are Pretty Much That Way.

We Buy Things. We Wear Them Or Put Them On Our Walls, Or Sit On Them, But Anyone Who Wants To Can Take Them Away From Us. Or Break Them. ... Long After He's Dead, Someone Else Will Own Those Stupid Little Boxes, And Then Someone After Him, Just As Someone Owned Them Before He Did. But No One Ever Thinks Of That: Objects Survive Us And Go On Living. It's Stupid To Believe We Own Them. And It's Sinful For Them To Be So Important.