I discovered Cormac McCarthy in 1970 in Victoria when I stumbled into a bookshop, Poor Richard’s this was, began browsing among the rear shelves and pulled down a hardback called The Orchard Keeper. It was a first novel, I . . .
I came out of my writing room only wanting what I was thinking of as a small break from the tedium of composing, endlessly composing, but actually just sort of sitting there, sitting in there, I mean, though earnestly sitting, . . .