Why does anybody tell a story? It does indeed have something to do with faith. Faith that the universe has meaning, that our little human lives are not irrelevant, that what we choose or say or do matters, matters cosmically.

A life lived in chaos is an impossibility for the artist. No matter how unstructured may seem the painter's garret in Paris or the poet's pad in Greenwich Village, the artist must have some kind of order or he will proudce a very small body of work. To create a work of art, great or small, is work, hard work, and work requires discipline and order.

Dare I? Of course I don't. But I'm going to anyhow because I have no choice.

No matter how true I believe what I am writing to be, if the reader cannot also participate in that truth, then I have failed.

We do not know and cannot tell when the spirit is with us. Great talent or small, it makes no difference. We are caught within our own skins, our own sensibilities; we never know if our technique has been adequate to the vision.

When we can play with the unself-conscious concentration of a child, this is: art: prayer: love.

A new year can begin only because the old year ends.