For In Spite Of The Snapdragons And

I Had A Cousin Once Who Lived In Your Dictionary, Inside The Binding, And There Was A Tiny Hole Which He Used For A Door, And It Led Out Between Trichotomy And Trick. Now What Do You Think Of That? It Was Only A Few Minutes Walk To Trigger, Then Over The Page To Trinity, Trinket And Trional, And There My Cousin Used To Fall Asleep.

Writing A Novel Is Not Merely Going On A Shopping Expedition Across The Border To An Unreal Land: It Is Hours And Years Spent In The Factories, The Streets, The Cathedrals Of The Imagination.

[...] A Morass Of Despair Violence Death With A Thin Layer Of Glass Spread Upon The Surface Where Love, A Tiny Crab With Pincers And Rainbow Shell, Walked Delicately Ever Sideways But Getting Nowhere, While The Sun [...] Rose Higher In The Sky Its Tassels Dropping With Flame Threatening Every Moment To Melt The Precarious Highway Of Glass. And The People: Giant Pathworks Of Colour With Limbs Missing And Parts Of Their Mind Snipped Off To Fit Them Into The Outline Of The Free Pattern.

Much Of Living Is An Attempt To Preserve Oneself By Annexing And Occupying Others.

For In Spite Of The Snapdragons And The Duty Millers And The Cherry Blossoms, It Was Always Winter.