I Dream A Lot, In Colour And

Death Should Be A Celebration. Like A Birthday. I Want To Go Up Like A Rocket When My Time Comes, And Fall Down In A Cloud Of Stars, And Hear Everyone Go: Ahh!

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.

We Came In The Wind Of The Carnival. A Wind Of Change, Or Promises. The Merry Wind, The Magical Wind, Making March Hares Of Everyone, Tumbling Blossoms And Coat-tails And Hats; Rushing Towards Summer In A Frenzy Of Exuberance.

In Any Case, Fire Burns; That's Its Nature, And You Can't Expect To Change That. You Can Use It To Cook Your Meat Or To Burn Down Your Neighbor's House. And Is The Fire You Use For Cooking Any Different From The One You Use For Burning? And Does That Mean You Should Eat Your Supper Raw?" Maddy Shook Her Head, Still Puzzled. "so What You're Saying Is . . . I Shouldn't Play With Fire," She Said At Last. Of Course You Should," Said One-eye Gently. "but Don't Be Surprised If The Fire Plays Back.

Sheep Are Not The Docile, Pleasant Creatures Of The Pastoral Idyll. Any Countryman Will Tell You That. They Are Sly, Occasionally Vicious, Pathologically Stupid. The Lenient Shepherd May Find His Flock Unruly, Definant. I Cannot Afford To Be Lenient.