... Saroyan does not impose himself on the world, on this great Rome. He doesn't even offer it. In these times of voracious appetites, his tray of absolute conscience is too empty to impose or offer. It is impossible to impose or offer what there is no approximate demand for. This barren land does not need its pomegranates, and Saroyan, an orphan, devoid of all kinds of state and national patronage, murmurs a little confused that you are good, whatever you are doing, you were going to do, whatever will happen will happen, but here it is.
What is there? Human gut. Where is that gut? Where did that sect become an official religion and create its own social order? Saroyan doesn't have an answer for that, and creates situations and people whose common name is grass, a cow waiting to be milked or slaughtered in the twilight, a horse standing in a valley a little away from the highway, or Joe, who are so kind that they don't know the extent of their kindness because they don't know the other dimensions of reality. The common name of all of them is William Saroyan...