You specialize in something until one day it is specializing in you.
The very impulse to write springs from an inner chaos crying for order - for meaning.
He wants to live on through something - and in his case, his masterpiece is his son. All of us want that, and it gets more poignant as we get more anonymous in this world.
Rise early. Write. Disappoint your sons. Read the newspaper. Go to bed early. Success.
A man is not a bird, to come and go with the springtime.
I think the job of the artist is to remind people of what they have chosen to forget.