In 1975 a portfolio of literati gathered at the University of Nebraska to explore the territory, style, and preoccupations of novelist Wright Morris, a native son, and these are the resulting highlights: four exchanges with Morris and three lectures about him, plus an essay and a sheaf of photographs by this pioneering poet of ""dry places"" in a demythicized America. Unlike Saroyan, another idiosyncratic loner, Morris has never captured a wide popular audience. Nor does he expect to edge out the current authors of ""well-or-ill disguised autobiography"": ""There is no patience now for (the) distancing of fiction."" Storytelling for Morris is a creative act like plant budding, ""to replace what is wearing out, to replace the cost of living."" Memory dims, and ""to repossess we must imagine."" He writes with little prior structure: ""I'm usually only a few paragraphs ahead of myself."" As for technique, ""I never talk about that--if you know how to walk you don't spend the morning talking about walking."" Morris discourses the way he writes--a tumbleweed in a middle distance between splintered realities and rich imaginings. One welcomes this thoughtful probe of a unique and rough-grained, endemically American talent.