One Beast And Only One Howls In

And, Indeed, Is There Not Something Holy About A Great Kitchen?... The Scoured Gleam Of Row Upon Row Of Metal Vessels Dangling From Hooks Or Reposing On Their Shelves Till Needed With The Air Of So Many Chalices Waiting For The Celebration Of The Sacrament Of Food. And The Range Like An Altar, Yes, Before Which My Mother Bowed In Perpetual Homage, A Fringe Of Sweat Upon Her Upper Lip And The Fire Glowing In Her Cheeks.

We Do Not Go To Bed In Single Pairs; Even If We Choose Not To Refer To Them, We Still Drag There With Us The Cultural Impedimenta Of Our Social Class, Our Parents' Lives, Our Bank Balances, Our Sexual And Emotional Expectations, Our Whole Biographies-all The Bits And Pieces Of Our Unique Existences.

I Haven't Changed Much, Over The Years. I Use Less Adjectives, Now, And Have A Kinder Heart, Perhaps.

I Think The Adjective Post-modernist Really Means Mannerist. Books About Books Is Fun But Frivolous.

Love Is Desire Sustained By Unfulfilment.