There is something I have noticed about desire, that it opens the eyes and strikes them blind at the same time.

Many said that now there was no hope of salvation, for a man might do anything and be in the wrong. There was no way to tell. It was better to stay on the steading and mind the cows and be content with such days as are left to one and cease to wonder about life everlasting.

Somehow, knowing that Alzheimer's is coming mocks all one's aspirations - to tell stories, to think through certain issues as only a novel can do, to be recognised for one's accomplishments and hard work - in a way that old familiar death does not.

Horse racing is really much more intimidating than anything having to do with literature. When I had horses at the racetrack, I would wake up in terror in a way that I would never wake up while working on a novel.

I don't know - is everything the U.S. does a shocking embarrassment?

Sinclair Lewis may be ripe for a revival; his books raise several interesting issues of art and fashion.

Another thing I learned is that novels, even those from apparently distant times and places, remain current and enlightening, and also comforting.