All Our Failures Are Ultimately Failures In

For Most Of Us The Space Between 'dreaming On Things To Come' And 'it Is Too Late, It Is All Over' Is Too Tiny To Enter.

Art Is The Final Cunning Of The Human Soul Which Would Rather Do Anything Than Face The Gods.

Art And Psychoanalysis Give Shape And Meaning To Life And That Is Why We Adore Them, But Life As It Is Lived Has No Shape And Meaning.

Then I Felt Too That I Might Take This Opportunity To Tie Up A Few Loose Ends, Only Of Course Loose Ends Can Never Be Properly Tied, One Is Always Producing New Ones. Time, Like The Sea, Unties All Knots. Judgements On People Are Never Final, They Emerge From Summings Up Which At Once Suggest The Need Of A Reconsideration. Human Arrangements Are Nothing But Loose Ends And Hazy Reckoning, Whatever Art May Otherwise Pretend In Order To Console Us.

Starting A Novel Is Opening A Door On A Misty Landscape; You Can Still See Very Little But You Can Smell The Earth And Feel The Wind Blowing.