Sunday, The Day For The Language Of

Women Age Early, And Their Mistake Is Not Knowing Where To Hide All The Time That Lies Behind Them So That No One Sees It. What Are They To Do, Devour It Like The Umbilical Cords Of Their Children? Hell And Damnation!

As Is Said About Most Writers: On The One Hand All I Ever Did From When I Was A Child Was Read, And I Was A Loner, Which Was Furthered By My Parents And My Upbringing.

Strictly Speaking, There Are No Holidays For Art; Art Pursues You Everywhere, And That's Just Fine With The Artist.

I Do Not Want To Have The Feeling Of Writing "for Eternity," So To Speak.

Literature That Keeps Employing New Linguistic And Formal Modes Of Expression To Draft A Panorama Of Society As A Whole While At The Same Time Exposing It, Tearing The Masks From Its Face - For Me That Would Be Deserving Of An Award.