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245 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1988



I did not live entirely alone…there were lizards on the walls and ceilings — friends these — and a large rat — definitely an enemy — who got in and out of the window and who sometimes carried away manuscripts and clothing.
I have never been any good at the more lurid sort of writing. Psychopathic killers, impotent war-heroes, self-tortured film stars, and seedy espionage agents must exist in this world, but strangely enough, I do not come across them, and I prefer to write about the people and places I have known and the lives of those whose paths I have crossed. This crossing of paths makes for stories rather than novels, and although I have worked in both mediums, I am happier being a short-story writer than a novelist.