It was the last piece the New York Times did on him while he was still alive, as I recall.  Charles McGrath interviewing Philip Roth.  And toward the end of it, he mentions how advance copies of new books arrive for him, exposing him to different corridors.  One, T.N. Coates, leads to a reference he follows.  Another, Will of the Worlds, and The Swerve...

At the very end of the interview, as published, a note, a lament, no one sends him first copies of anything, not like they used to.  His friends have died.  A brief final statement on life.

I got as far as tracking down his address from his publisher's website.  I was going to send him a copy of my book, via Amazon, a brief note maybe.  A month or two went by, and then, appropriately, bespeaking of his own final authority, he passed away.

C.M. Looking back, how do you recall your 50-plus years as a writer?

P.R. Exhilaration and groaning. Frustration and freedom. Inspiration and uncertainty. Abundance and emptiness. Blazing forth and muddling through. The day-by-day repertoire of oscillating dualities that any talent withstands — and tremendous solitude, too. And the silence: 50 years in a room silent as the bottom of a pool, eking out, when all went well, my minimum daily allowance of usable prose.

One cannot serve two masters.  At least not God and mammon at the same time...


After returning the rental car in the parking garage below the hotel I make it to bed finally after some wine with Goodbye Columbus.  The definition of how to write.  My writing cannot hold a candle in comparison, the work of a cave man.

But, I suppose, I share the instinct, toward the solitary concentration of writing and the thoughts that come.  I am my own Kilgore Trout, the bad science fiction writer in Vonnegut fiction who has good ideas and is a bridge between the thoughts of the character Billy Pilgrim and the reality of the narration of Slaughterhouse Five.

I am the idea guy, the lousy writer of little talent, but who has a natural sense of the different science fictions we tell ourselves as we get through life, the science fictions that are the archaic religions we still might have floating in our minds in some suspension of disbelief.  Writing lends itself to such fictions, and in a way, is one of them itself.


The iPhone buzzes, a robo-call, bringing me a sense of dread.  Then Mom calls to remember our visit.  I got some rest in.  I have to go in to work for training on the new computer system.

The master of writing versus the master of working in a restaurant amidst wine and talk, the lure of decent food.  I try to take care of myself.