Our Lives Are Not What We Deserve;

To See Things Plainly, You Have To Cross A Frontier.

Only The Foolish, Blinded By Language's Conventions, Think Of Fire As Red Or Gold. Fire Is Blue At It's Melancholy Rim, Green In It's Envious Heart. It May Burn White, Or Even, In It's Greatest Rages, Black.

When I'm Writing A Book, Sentence By Sentence, I'm Not Thinking Theoretically. I'm Just Trying To Work Out The Story From Inside The Characters I've Got.

Shame Is Like Everything Else; Live With It For Long Enough And It Becomes Part Of The Furniture.

Between The Adored And The Adorer Falls The Shadow.