In A Power Hungry, Power Worshipping Society,

I Am Like A Blind Pig When I Work.

To Stay In Places And To Leave, To Trust, To Distrust, To No Longer Believe And Believe Again, . . . To Watch The Snow Come, To Watch It Go, To Hear Rain On A Tent, To Know Where I Can Find What I Want.

Worry Destroys The Ability To Write.

The Road To Hell Is Paved With Unbought Stuffed Dogs.

Because Fascism Is A Lie, It Is Condemned To Literary Sterility. And When It Is Past, It Will Have No History, Except The Bloody History Of Murder.