The Earth Here Is Beautiful. And It

Yes. To Write A Novel Is To Risk My Sanity. The Deeper I Get Into The Suffering And Conflict Of The Characters, Into The Very Situations And Thoughts And Feelings That Make The Novel Worthwhile, The Worse I Feel, And The More Likely I Am To Be Severely Depressed When The Book Is Finished. There Is No Avoiding This: It Is The Result Of Attempting To Tell All You Know, To Reach For The Stars, To Write What Matters.

I Was In The Black Silence Of A Medieval Street, And Blindly I Followed Its Sharp Turns, Comforted By The Height Of Its Narrow Tenements, Which Seemed At Any Moment Capable Of Falling Together, Closing This Alleyway Under Indifferent Stars Like A Seam.

‎there's No Way To Cheat A Sensualist Like Me, Somebody Who Can Die Laughing For Hours Over The Pattern Of The Carpet In A Hotel Lobby.

It's An Awful Truth That Suffering Can Deepen Us, Give A Greater Lustre To Our Colours, A Richer Resonance To Our Words.

I Know Christianity; And I Know I Have To Move Away From It And Approach Jesus Christ On My Own. I Have To Talk To Him Directly And Seek His Guidance And Protection As I Seek To Make My Commitment To Him Central To My Life.