I Think I'm Less The Writer Than

I'm A Hopeless 19th-century Romantic.

A Man Is Not Much If He Can't Depend On Himself, And Nothing If Others Can't Depend On Him.

Everything We Do Is Tinged With The Knowledge That This May Be The Last Time That We Will Do This, And That Makes What We're Doing Incredibly Sweet.

I Don't Own A Kindle, No. I Love Books, They Are Beautiful Objects.

In The City Of Flesh I Travel Without Maps, A Worried Tourist: And Ottilie Was A Very Venice. I Stumbled Lost In The Blue Shade Of Her Pavements. Here Was A Dreamy Stillness, A Swaying, The Splash Of An Oar. Then, When I Least Expected It, Suddenly I Stepped Out Into The Great Square, The Sunlight, And She Was A Flock Of Birds Scattering With Soft Cries In My Arms.