I Think I'm Less The Writer Than

What I Was Afraid Of Was My Own Grief, The Weight Of It, The Ineluctable Corrosive Force Of It, And The Stark Awareness I Had Of Being, For The First Time In My Life, Entirely Alone, A Crusoe Shipwrecked And Stranded In The Limitless Wastes Of A Boundless And Indifferent Ocean.

I Dont Know If There Is A Personal Identity. We All Imagine That We Are Absolute Individuals. But When We Begin To Look For Where This Individuality Resides, Its Very Difficult To Find.

In My Books You Have To Concentrate, But I Work Hard To Make It That, When You Do, The Rewards Are Quite High.

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.

The Past Beats Inside Me Like A Second Heart.