Fear Is A Place Where You Just

There’s No Conscious Thing On The Face Of The World That Doesn’t Know Dread More Intimately Than Its Own Heartbeat.

Funny That. We Live In Islands Of Hours And We Never Seem To Have Time Enough For Anything.

Of Course It’s The Apparently Tranquil Periods That Deceive Us. Though Our Instruments Or Our Senses Or Our Wits May Not Be Able To See The Processes That Are Leading Toward These Clusters Of Events, They’re Happening. The Star, The Wheel, The Butterfly—all Are In A Subtle State Of Unrest, Waiting For The Moment When Some Invisible Mechanism Signals That The Time Has Come. Then The Star Explodes; The Wheel Makes Poor Men Rich; The Butterfly Mates And Dies.

The Paintings Of Francis Bacon To My Eye Are Very Beautiful. The Paintings Of Bosch Or Goya Are To My Eye Very Beautiful. I've Also Stood In Front Of Those Same Paintings With People Who've Said, 'let's Get On To The Botticellis As Soon As Possible.' I Have Lingered, Of Course.

For A Writer, And Particularly A Writer Of My Genre, Which Is The Fantastical, I Think That It's To My Advantage To Feel Remote From And Disconnected From The World Of Deal Making.