Some days I feel good about my work, and sometimes I feel I’ve never written anything worthwhile. That’s par for the course.
Obviously, death is ahead of me. I don’t look forward to dying one little bit. But, you know, I simply don’t worry about it because it’s going to happen to me as it does to anybody.
I expect my immortality will last about six seconds after my funeral.
I grew up in the suburbs of Connecticut – during the school time of year – but I preferred it in New Hampshire. I preferred the culture, the landscape, the relative solitude. I’ve always loved it.
When I was a child, I loved old people. My New Hampshire grandfather was my model human being.
When I lived summers at my grandparents’ farm, haying with my grandfather from 1938 to 1945, my dear grandmother Kate cooked abominably. For noon dinners, we might eat three days of fricasseed chicken from a setting hen that had boiled twelve hours.
I don’t publish anything I haven’t worked over 100 times.
Contentment is work so engrossing that you do not know that you are working.
Although I was paid a salary in Ann Arbor, my wife and children and I drank powdered milk at six cents a quart instead of the stuff that came in bottles. I was a tightwad.
In anything you write – in a short story, a poem – there has to be a counter-motion; it can’t go all in one direction.