by David Curran?
"Well," he says, adjusting himself on the porch rail. "What do you want to talk about?"
I'm comfortable in the one red log chair by the red wooded table. I look up at him. His hair is again blowing in the wind.
"I wondered if some of the things you write aren't true? Like in The Tokyo-Montana Express where you described Pine Creek?"
"I don't write about myself. The person in the books is not me," he insists.
"But, you gave directions. I mean, I was able to find my way here from what you said."
"I live in a real world. I have to describe something." He sounds almost cranky. Do I sound like an interviewer?
"I just sort of wondered," I say to appease him. And to assure him I was not an interviewer I explain how, while earning my degree in journalism and studying new journalism, I'd wondered about the fine line between fiction and journalism.
"I don't write about myself, though, in my books," he says, his tone relaxed.
From Richard Brautigan: A Pilgrimage, August, 1982
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