He clucked approvingly at my collection of hard-boiled titles, and pulled out a volume of Ambrose Bierce's short stories.  He read aloud a favorite passage from "Chickamauga" and said he was planning to write a biography of Bierce, plus a multivolume saga on the Civil War. Plus a novel about an American woman president, which he was presently working on.  Plus a sequel to "Shorty" called The Phantom Blooper.  Plus a series of six LA private-eye novels.  His notebook was color-indexed to various ongoing research projects, including Mark Twain, anarchy, the Alamo, Van Gogh, screenwriting and Abraham Lincoln -- all subjects about which he expected to write books eventually.

    "They were men.  They crept upon their hands and knees.  They used their hands only, dragging their legs.  They used their knees only, their arms hanging idle at their sides.  They strove to rise to their feet, but fell prone in the attempt.  They did nothing naturally, and nothing alike, save only to advance foot by foot in the same direction.  Singly, in pairs and in little groups, they came on through the gloom, some halting now and again while others crept slowly past them, then resuming their movement.  They came by dozens and by hundreds; as far on either hand as one could see in the deepening gloom they extended and the black wood behind them appeared to be inexhaustible.  The very ground seemed in motion toward the creek.  Occasionally one who had paused did not again go on, but lay motionless.  He was dead.  Some, pausing, made strange gestures with their hands, erected their arms and lowered them again clasped their heads; spread their palms upward, as men are sometimes seen to do in public prayer."