The Mist Hung In The Air Like

If I Couldn't Get Published Tomorrow I'd Still Be Writing. It's Something To Do With Feeling So Overwhelmed By This Experience Of Life That You Have To Tell Someone About It, And In A Way That Reorders The Experience To Make It Manageable.

The Overintellectualization Of Surrealism Can Be A Bromide. A Dream Interpreted Is A Deflated Dream.

Twenty Years Is, After All, A Long Time. We Are Not The Same People We Were. Old Friends, Lovers, Even Family Members: They Are Strangers Who Happen To Wear A Familiar Face. We Have No Right To Claim To Know Anyone After Such A Distance.

No One Needs A First Edition. Whoever Wrote It; Even If It Was Moses.

The Bluebells Made Such A Pool That The Earth Had Become Like Water, And All The Trees And Bushes Seemed To Have Grown Out Of The Water. And The Sky Above Seemed To Have Fallen Down On To The Earth Floor; And I Didn’t Know If The Sky Was The Earth Or The Earth Was Water. I Had Been Turned Upside Down. I Had To Hold The Rock With My Fingernails To Stop Me Falling Into The Sky Of The Earth Or The Water Of The Sky. But I Couldn’t Hold On.