As vehicles for ideas, my characters might leave you with the impression that I am a creature devoid of emotion and generally incapable of bringing living characters of flesh and blood to the page. Such were my critic’s remarks: the observer incapable of breathing life into the unobservable, always looking in through the glass without a hope of understanding. Well, that critic and yourself would be wrong. It is not for a lack of human feeling, caring or empathy that my own characters, if you allow me that, are anything but. Rather, it is from too much empathy that I avoid flesh and blood, hair and bone. For to bring characters of this kind into the world be to subject them to suffering. Human characters can suffer, but ideas cannot. Certainly, Ideas can lose in luster, but they cannot suffer in any human way. In some roundabout fashion and through peopling my stories, again if you allow me that much, with ideas, I have attained the Platonic realm. My unwieldy artifice can thus be reduced to my unwillingness, my incapacity to bring into this world a being which might then suffer, a fact more revealing than I had previously realized.