Poetry Is Prose In Slow Motion.

I Would Like To Visit The Factory That Makes Train Horns, And Ask Them How They Are Able To Arrive At That Chord Of Eternal Mournfulness. Is It Deliberately Sad? Are The Horns Saying, Be Careful, Stay Away From This Train Or It Will Run You Over And Then People Will Grieve, And Their Grief Will Be As The Inconsolable Wail Of This Horn Through The Night? The Out-of-tuneness Of The Triad Is Part Of Its Beauty.

I Wrote About World War Ii Because I Didn't Understand It. I Think That's The Reason That Historians Are Drawn To Any Subject - There's Something About It That Doesn't Make Sense. I Wanted To Work My Way Through What Happened Slowly, And Look At Everything In The Order In Which It Took Place.

In The Novel, I Can Change Things And Simplify, And Make Events Work Towards Whatever Meanings I'm Trying To Get At More Efficiently.

Rarely Do Pens Go Dry In Restaurants.

The Equivocations, The Confusions, The Contradictions. There's No Way We Can Live Through Or Comprehend Something So Big That Happened So Long Ago. We've Lost True History. But If We Are Willing To Tolerate The Contradictions, And If We Suffer Through Events Rather Than Ticking Them Off, We May At Least Get Closer To Understanding What Happened Than If We Grip The Handrail Of A Carefully Polished And Reassuringly Heroic Narrative.