A Novel Is A Mirror Walking Down

We Own The Country We Grow Up In, Or We Are Aliens And Invaders.

When I Began To Write Novels, I Wanted To Keep That Element Of Interaction With The Reader That Exists In Poetry, Not Just For The Reader To Be Shepherded From A To B To C To D But To Participate, And The Less You Say Sometimes, The Better It Is. You Know, It's The Way When Someone Speaks Very Quietly, You Move Forward So You Can Listen More Carefully.

The Music Of Gavin Bryars Falls Under No Category. It Is Mongrel, Full Of Sensuality And Wit And Is Deeply Moving. He Is One Of The Few Composers Who Can Put Slapstick And Primal Emotion Alongside Each Other. He Allows You To Witness New Wonders In The Sounds Around You By Approaching Them From A Completely New Angle. With A Third Ear Maybe.

The Trouble With All Of Us Is We Are Where We Shouldn't Be.

Her Father Had Taught Her About Hands. About A Dog's Paws. Whenever Her Father Was Alone With A Dog In A House He Would Lean Over And Smell The Skin At The Base Of Its Paw. This, He Would Say, As If Coming Away From A Brandy Snifter, Is The Greatest Smell In The World! A Bouquet! Great Rumours Of Travel! She Would Pretend Disgust, But The Dog's Paw Was A Wonder: The Smell Of It Never Suggested Dirt. It's A Cathedral! Her Father Had Said, So-and-so's Garden, That Field Of Grasses, A Walk Through Cyclamen--a Concentration Of Hints Of All The Paths The Animal Had Taken During The Day.