I’ve Always Thought You Are What You

Books Are Where Things Are Explained To You; Life Is Where Things Aren't.

Life Is Like Invading Russia. A Blitz Start, Massed Shakos, Plumes Dancing Like A Flustered Henhouse; A Period Of Svelte Progress Recorded In Ebullient Despatches As The Enemy Falls Back; Then The Beginning Of A Long, Morale-sapping Trudge With Rations Getting Shorter And The First Snowflakes Upon Your Face. The Enemy Burns Moscow And You Yield To General January, Whose Fingernails Are Very Icicles. Bitter Retreat. Harrying Cossacks. Eventually You Fall Beneath A Boy-gunner's Grapeshot While Crossing Some Polish River Not Even Marked On Your General's Map.

Pride Makes Us Long For A Solution To Things – A Solution, A Purpose, A Final Cause; But The Better Telescopes Become, The More Stars Appear.

The Writer Must Be Universal In Sympathy And An Outcast By Nature: Only Then Can He See Clearly.

Every Love Story Is A Potential Grief Story.