A Story Can Be New And Yet

Only The Right Name Gives Beings And Things Their Reality. A Wrong Name Makes Everything Unreal. That's What Lies Do.

Nothing Is Lost. . .everything Is Transformed.

No Architect Troubled To Design Houses That Suited People Who Were To Live In Them, Because That Would Have Meant Building A Whole Range Of Different Houses. It Was Far Cheaper And, Above All, Timesaving To Make Them Identical.

I Wonder, What's In A Book While It's Closed. Oh, I Know It's Full Of Letters Printed On Paper, But All The Same, Something Must Be Happening, Because As Soon As I Open It, There's A Whole Story With People I Don't Know Yet And All Kinds Of Adventures, Deeds And Battles. And Sometimes There Are Storms At Sea, Or It Takes You To Strange Cities And Countries. All Those Things Are Somehow Shut In A Book. Of Course You Have To Read It To Find Out. But It's Already There, That's The Funny Thing. I Just Wish I Knew How It Could Be.

One May Enter The Literary Parlor Via Just About Any Door, Be It The Prison Door, The Madhouse Door, Or The Brothel Door. There Is But One Door One May Not Enter It Through, Which Is The Child Room Door. The Critics Will Never Forgive You Such. The Great Rudyard Kipling Is One Of A Number Of People To Have Suffered From This. I Keep Wondering To Myself What This Peculiar Contempt Towards Anything Related To Childhood Is All About.