Garden Work Clears The Mind.

Anything That Can Be Dreamed Is True.

Places Have Their Own Characters. . . . But The People Begin To Look The Same.

Places Do Not Lose Their Identity, However Far One Travels. It Is The Heart That Begins To Erode Over Time. The Face In The Hotel Mirror Seems Blurred Some Mornings, As If By Too Many Casual Looks. By Ten The Sheets Will Be Laundered, The Carpet Swept. The Names On The Hotel Registers Change As We Pass. We Leave No Trace As We Pass On. Ghostlike, We Cast No Shadow.

What Is A Writer Of Fiction But A Liar With A Licence?

Of Course I Didn't Pioneer The Use Of Food In Fiction: It Has Been A Standard Literary Device Since Chaucer And Rabelais, Who Used Food Wonderfully As A Metaphor For Sensuality.