No Artist Knows Everything... But Since Every

There’s A Reason Humans Peg-out Around Eighty: Prose Fatigue. It Looks Like Organ Failure Or Cancer Or Stroke But It’s Really Just The Inability To Carry On Clambering Through The Assault Course Of Mundane Cause And Effect. If We Ask Sheila Then We Can’t Ask Ron. If I Have The Kippers Now Then It’s Quiche For Tea. Four Score Years Is About All The Ifs And Thens You Can Take. Dementia’s The Sane Realisation You Just Can’t Be Doing With All That Anymore.

When You're A Kid It's People's Cruelty That Makes You Cry, Then When You're An Adult It's Their Kindness.

Only Meaning Can Make A Difference And We All Know There's No Meaning. All Stories Express A Desire For Meaning, Not Meaning Itself. Therefore Any Difference Knowing The Story Makes Is A Delusion.

Once You've Stopped Loving Someone Breaking His Or Her Heart's Just An Unpleasant Chore You Have To Get Behind You. My God, You Really Don't Love Me Anymore, Do You? No Matter Your Decency The Victim's Incredulity's Potentially Hilarious. You Manage Not To Laugh.

Literature Is Humanity's Broad-minded Alter-ego, With Room In Its Heart For Monsters, Even For You. It's Humanity Without The Judgement.