I Would Be Far More Critical Than

That's One Of The Many Things I Hate About Life, That It's A Hideously Cliched Business.

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.

If I Was Asked To Say What Was The Greatest Invention Of Human Beings, I Would Say The Sentence.

I Think I'm Less The Writer Than I'm The Written.

I Am The Worst Judge Of My Books.