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Why the hell am I writing a novel? Who’s going to read it? And why read it? Whatever I have to say will undoubtedly be of no use when a pair of stockinged limbs go clicking by on seductive heels. And when a guy finds himself in the path of an onrushing army of soldiers brandishing bayonets, what does all my writing or the writing of anybody else matter? […] A novel is usually written by novelists. I am a human being, with a soul, a vanity, an ego, and a suitcase. I am a poet and a writer. I am not a novelist. I live on this earth, and if you don’t mind my saying so, the other man-creatures that exist with me are damned difficult to get along with. And I don’t doubt that they find me difficult also.

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