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“Forty-four years ago near this date I was running around getting ready to go to the Oscars because I was nominated – TVTV was doing a special on it and they were there at my apartment near Franklin and Highland, filming me pulling away in my new Fiat convertible with a faulty oil gauge; my hair didn’t turn out at the hairdresser so I stuck my head into the sink, rinsed it and started over, then went to pick up the most expensive dress I ever bought, at Giorgio, with curlers in my hair; finally got ready, brother Stephen on one arm and a camellia behind one ear, in black with a white fox thrift store stole, held hands with John Carradine on the way in a black limousine, his long, delicate fingers large next to mine; when they called my name, I leaned over to Robert Altman on my right, so the cameras showed Susan Sarandon on the screen instead – she was seated behind me next to her husband Chris; when Army Archerd greeted us for an interview, I said cluelessly, Army! what are you doing here? Lily and Keith were there and are still working their magic, but many from the movie Nashville are gone: I will toast them tonight and remember them well, for what they were as artists and for what each gave me and taught me personally. How time slips away into memory’s shadow and light, flickering and replayed like film itself, our glorious moments upon the stage flame up candle bright, before the wick burns down into itself, shedding a gentle glow as it melts into the past. (Thinking of you in New York.)”
~ Ronee Blakley

“To writers of my generation, who grew up in the age of Penguin books, vinyl records and the BBC, it’s as if a cultural ecology has been wiped out. For as long as most of us can remember, every would-be writer knew the landscape of the printed word. This Georgian square was home to publishing grandees (now retired). On that high street were the booksellers (now out of business). In those twisting back streets, you could expect to find literary agents working the margins with the injured innocence of pickpockets at a synod. It was a mutually dependent ecosystem. Publishers were toffs, booksellers trade and printers the artisan champions of liberty. Like the class system, we thought, nothing would change. The most urgent deadline was lunch. How wrong we were… 
          “I get the impression that people are sick of being lied to by corporations and governments,” Joanna Kavena says. “Writers have nothing but their integrity. They are disaffiliated. They can tell the truth. Anything doing that might just get an audience, whether it comes as a physical artefact like a hardback, or as an e-book. You don’t write unless you hope for that. And you always hope.”
~ On An End To The Writing Life