I've been telling all my friends that The Winged Child, is my last novel, that when I turn eighty this spring, I'll retire from fiction and become a poet. When I look around, though, I see all these old tale-spinners still plugging away at it.
James Lee Burke, at eighty-four, gives us one more Dave Robicheaux saga in A Private Cathedral, and manages to expand his horizons doing it. John le Carré unloads Agent Running in the Field at eighty-eight years.
Maybe it's time I got digging after a new book. I might be too young yet to rhyme.