Although most of us know Vincent van Gogh in Arles and Paul Gauguin in Tahiti as if they were neighbors -- somewhat disreputable but endlessly fascinating -- none of us can name two French generals or department store owners of that period. I take enormous pride in considering myself an artist, one of the necessaries.

About a billion years ago, long before the continents had separated to define the ancient oceans, or their own outlines had been determined, a small protuberance jutted out from the northwest corner of what would later become North America.

The job of a storyteller is to tell stories, and I have concentrated on that obligation.

I was brought up in the great tradition of the late nineteenth century: that a writer never complains, never explains and never disdains.

Religious hatreds ought not to be propagated at all, but certainly not on a tax-exempt basis.

When I was a child in the Navy during World War II, I was perennially grateful to the armed services libraries for having on hand a good supply of those pocket books, which were so common in that period. I must have read a couple hundred of them, and they did a lot to save my sanity.

The arrogance of the artist is a very profound thing, and it fortifies you.