Eudora Welty, The Art of Fiction by Linda Kuehl
This article has been published by The Paris Review. It begins:
I met Eudora Welty in her room at the Algonquin Hotel an hour or so after her train had arrived in Penn Station. She had given me the wrong room number, so I first saw her peering out of her door as the elevator opened. A tall, large-boned, gray-haired woman greeted me apologetically. She was admittedly nervous about being interviewed, particularly on a tape recorder. After describing her train ride—she won’t fly—she braced herself and asked if I wouldn’t begin the questioning.
Once the interview got underway, she grew more at ease. As she herself might say, she was “not unforthcoming.” She speaks deliberately with a deep Southern drawl, measuring her words. She is extremely private and won’t reveal anything personal about herself.