All I Want Is Not To Die

I Always Wrote Little Things When I Was Younger. My First Opus Was A Book Of Poems Put Down In A Spiral Notebook At Five Or Six, Handsomely Accompanied By Crayon Illustrations.

We Move Through The Day Like Two Hands Of A Clock: Sometimes We Overlap For A Moment, Then Come Apart Again, Carrying On Alone. Everyday Exactly The Same: The Tea, The Burnt Toast, The Crumbs, The Silence.

I Am Always Coming Up With Architectural Metaphors When I Think About Writing. But I Think One Of The Things That Draw Us To Literature Is That It Gives Us This Very Attractive Illusion That There Is Meaning In The World - Things Connect.

I Was Never A Man Of Great Ambition I Cried Too Easily I Didn't Have A Head For Science Words Often Failed Me While Others Prayed I Only Moved My Lips

Why Are We So Addicted To Factual Knowledge? Why Are We So Uncomfortable With The Unknown? Is It Something About The Anxiety Of Our Time? Because Of Course That Wasn't Always The Way. Even Now The Whole Idea Of The Rational Individual Has Been Subject To Question And Yet We Still Cling To This Idea Of Factual, Rational Knowledge Being More Valuable Than Whatever Its Opposite Might Be.