I do not feel an exile from America in any sense.
I used to carry about with me a German map-case filled with poems.
When I started writing fiction, I knew how good it was immediately.
I remember my mother finding mud somehow and putting it on the sting.
In The Lime Twig I took two very young people and made them very old.
As in The Lime Twig dream and illusion are right at the center of Charivari.
The only thing that exists is torment, lyricism, and the magnificence of language.
On the night before we were married, all of the anxiety in the world came down upon me.
I was not typical. Whatever typical or normal is, I was somehow separated and different.
Really, I didn't like Alaska. It rained, almost every day, at least 300 days out of the year.