Never Stop Paying Attention To Things. Never

He Was Beautiful, That Was Always Affirmed, But His Beauty Was Hard To Fix Or To See, For He Was Always Glimmering, Flickering, Melting, Mixing, He Was The Shape Of A Shapeless Flame, He Was The Eddying Thread Of Needle-shapes In The Shapeless Mass Of The Waterfall. He Was The Invisible Wind That Hurried The Clouds In Billows And Ribbons. You Could See A Bare Tree On The Skyline Bent By The Wind, Holding Up Twisted Branches And Bent Twigs, And Suddenly Its Formless Form Would Resolve Itself Into That Of The Trickster.

I Acquired A Hunger For Fairy Tales In The Dark Days Of Blackout And Blitz In The Second World War.

I Don't Think It Is An Easy Thing To Write And Expect To Be Commercial, Even If You Are From Venus And A Hermaphrodite.

Autobiographies Tell More Lies Than All But The Most Self-indulgent Fiction.

…my Solitude Is My Treasure, The Best Thing I Have.