All History, Of Course, Is The History

The Day Is Refracted, And The Next And The One After That, All Of Them Broken Up Into A Hundred Juggled Segments, Each Brilliant And Self-contained So That The Hours Are No Longer Linear But Assorted Like Bright Sweets In A Jar.

In Old Age, You Realise That While You're Divided From Your Youth By Decades, You Can Close Your Eyes And Summon It At Will. As A Writer It Puts One At A Distinct Advantage.

Wars Are Fought By Children. Conceived By Their Mad Demonic Elders, And Fought By Boys.

I Believe That The Experience Of Childhood Is Irretrievable. All That Remains, For Any Of Us, Is A Headful Of Brilliant Frozen Moments, Already Dangerously Distorted By The Wisdoms Of Maturity.

I Can Remember The Lush Spring Excitement Of Language In Childhood. Sitting In Church, Rolling It Around My Mouth Like Marbles--tabernacle And Pharisee And Parable, Tresspass And Babylon And Covenant.