I'm Intrigued By The Way In Which

History Unravels; Circumstances, Following Their Natural Inclination, Prefer To Remain Ravelled.

I'm Writing Another Novel And I Know What I'm Going To Do After, Which May Be Something More Like This Again, Maybe Some Strange Mixture Of Fiction And Non-fiction.

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

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

I Can Remember The Lush Spring Excitement Of Language In Childhood. Sitting In Church, Rolling It Around My Mouth Like Marbles--tabernacle And Pharisee And Parable, Tresspass And Babylon And Covenant.