Man's hope can paint a purple picture, can transform a soaring vulture into a noble eagle or moaning dove.

I remember that I'm invisible and walk softly so as not awake the sleeping ones. Sometimes it is best not to awaken them; there are few things in the world as dangerous as sleepwalkers.

And while the ice was melting to form a flood in which I threatened to drown I awoke one afternoon to find that my first northern winter had set.

So why do I write, torturing myself to put it down? Because in spite of myself I've learned some things. Without the possibility of action, all knowledge comes to one labeled "file and forget," and I can neither file nor forget. Nor will certain ideas forget me; they keep filing away at my lethargy, my complacency. Why should I be the one to dream this nightmare?

Good fiction is made of that which is real, and reality is difficult to come by.

What and how much had I lost by trying to do only what was expected of me instead of what I myself had wished to do?

Words are your business, boy. Not just the word. Words are everything. The key to the rock, the answer to the question.