We’d Hoped For Love Of A Different

You Have Started The Book With This Bubble Over Your Head That Contains A Cathedral Full Of Fire - That Contains A Novel So Vast And Great And Penetrating And Bright And Dark That It Will Put All Other Novels Ever Written To Shame. And Then, As You Get Towards The End, You Begin To Realise, No, It's Just This Book.

These Days, Clarissa Believes, You Measure People First By Their Kindness And Their Capacity For Devotion. You Get Tired, Sometimes, Of Wit And Intellect; Everybody's Little Display Of Genius.

Language In Fiction Is Made Up Of Equal Parts Meaning And Music. The Sentences Should Have Rhythm And Cadence, They Should Engage And Delight The Inner Ear.

What She Wants To Say Has To Do Not Only With Joy But With The Penetrating, Constant Fear That Is Joy's Other Half.

She Is Not A Writer At All, Really; She Is Merely A Gifted Eccentric.