I Rather Like Getting Away From Fiction.

It Seems To Me That Everything That Happens To Us Is A Disconcerting Mix Of Choice And Contingency.

We Make Choices But Are Constantly Foiled By Happenstance.

The Day Is Refracted, And The Next And The One After That, All Of Them Broken Up Into A Hundred Juggled Segments, Each Brilliant And Self-contained So That The Hours Are No Longer Linear But Assorted Like Bright Sweets In A Jar.

Wars Are Fought By Children. Conceived By Their Mad Demonic Elders, And Fought By Boys.

Every Novel Generates Its Own Climate, When You Get Going.