The Only Way I Could Finish A

A Book, A True Book, Is The Writer's Confessional. For, Whether He Would Have It So Or Not, He Is Betrayed, Directly Or Indirectly, By His Characters, Into Presenting Publicly His Innermost Feelings.

Thinking Of Poe, Thinking Of Mark Twain And Vachel Lindsay, Thinking Of Jack London And Tom Wolfe, One Begins To Feel There Is Almost No Way Of Becoming A Creative Writer In America Without Being A Loser.

... Chicago Divided Your Heart. Leaving You Loving The Joint For Keeps. Yet Knowing It Never Can Love You.

I Went Out There For A Thousand A Week, And I Worked Monday, And I Got Fired Wednesday. The Guy That Hired Me Was Out Of Town Tuesday.

Our Myths Are So Many, Our Vision So Dim, Our Self-deception So Deep And Our Smugness So Gross That Scarcely Any Way Now Remains Of Reporting The American Century Except From Behind The Billboards.