The Bottomless Bitter Misery Of Childhood: How

So We Live; A Spirit That Broods And Hovers Over The Continual Death Of Time, The Lost Meaning, The Unrecaptured Moment, The Unremembered Face, Until The Final Chop That Ends All Our Moments And Plunges That Spirit Back Into The Void From Which It Came.

Any Writer Is Inevitably Going To Work With His Own Anxieties And Desires. If The Book Is Any Good It Has Got To Have In It The Fire Of A Personal Unconscious Mind.

Love Is The Perception Of Individuals. Love Is The Extremely Difficult Realisation That Something Other Than Oneself Is Real.

All Art Deals With The Absurd And Aims At The Simple. Good Art Speaks Truth, Indeed Is Truth, Perhaps The Only Truth.

Language Is A Machine For Making Falsehoods.