If Americans are to read something that is difficult, they will only do so supposing they will be admired for having done it.

The old man began to sing. His voice was very lovely and obviously a part of something that the world had disposed of in its haste, evidence of a grander, kinder past.

Not that believing such things has anything to do with whether they are true. You see that, don't you?

If he acts, if he doesn't, it's meaningless. The whole thing goes forward. No one is important. No one at all.

I'd say writing is easier for me now than it once was, but I do less of it.

I have a very basic notion of the structure the book might have - that's mostly it. The rest is luck and happenstance.

That would be the death of anyone - to recognize false hopes with a certainty. One mustn't know that. If it is offered, refuse!