The Conch Exploded Into A Thousand White

I Hope My Books Make Statements About Our General Condition.

They Accepted The Pleasures Of Morning, The Bright Sun, The Whelming Sea And Sweet Air, As A Time When Play Was Good And Life So Full That Hope Was Not Necessary And Therefore Forgotten.

The Novel Is Very Much Alive, Indeed. In Toronto At The Sixth Annual International Festival Of Authors (october 1985) I Listened To Novelists By The Dozen.

Percival Was Mouse-coloured And Had Not Been Very Attractive Even To His Mother.

Towards Midnight The Rain Ceased And The Clouds Drifted Away, So That The Sky Was Scattered Once More With The Incredible Lamps Of Stars.