The point I would make is that the novelist and the historian are seeking the same thing: the truth – not a different truth: the same truth – only they reach it, or try to reach it, by different routes. Whether the event took place in a world now gone to dust, preserved by documents and evaluated by scholarship, or in the imagination, preserved by memory and distilled by the creative process, they both want to tell us how it was: to re-create it, by their separate methods, and make it live again in the world around them.

I don't want anything to do with anything mechanical between me and the paper, including a typewriter, and I don't even want a fountain pen between me and the paper.

People make a grievous error thinking that a list of facts is the truth. Facts are just the bare bones out of which truth is made.

I've never known, at least a modern historical instance, where the truth wasn't superior to distortion in every way.

A fact is not a truth until you love it.

I abhor the idea of a perfect world. It would bore me to tears.

My second book, Follow Me Down had some success, got good critical notices, went into a second printing and things like that, but Shiloh was by far the most successful of those first five novels.