Midnight, And The Clock Strikes. It Is

Comedy Is Tragedy That Happens To Other People.

The End Of Exile Is The End Of Being.

Midnight, And The Clock Strikes. It Is Christmas Day, The Werewolves Birthday, The Door Of The Solstice Still Wide Enough Open To Let Them All Slink Through.

I Don't Really Think That Writers, Even Great Writers, Are Prophets, Or Sages, Or Messiah-like Figures; Writing Is A Lonely, Sedentary Occupation And A Touch Of Megalomania Can Be Comforting Around Five On A November Afternoon When You Haven't Seen Anybody All Day.

Why Do You Do Up Your Hair In Those Tortured Plaits, Now, Melanie? Why? Because, She Said. You Know That's No Answer. You're Spoiling Your Pretty Looks, Pet. Come Here. She Did Not Move. He Ground Out His Cigarette On The Window-ledge And Laughed. Come Here, He Said Again, Softly. So She Went.