Which Are You Drinking? The Water Or

I Think We Are Just Insects, We Live A Bit And Then Die And That’s The Lot. There’s No Mercy In Things. There’s Not Even A Great Beyond. There’s Nothing.

Like All Mystics (and Many Novelists, Not Least The Present One) He Is Baffled, A Child, Before The Real Now; Far Happier Out Of It, In A Narrative Past Or A Prophetic Future, Locked Inside That Weird Tence Grammar Does Not Allow, The Imaginary Present.

Death Is The Room That Is Always Empty.

On The Whole, Dialogue Is The Most Difficult Thing, Without Any Doubt. It's Very Difficult, Unfortunately. You Have To Detach Yourself From The Notion Of A Lifelike Quality. You See, Actually Lifelike, Tape-recorded Dialogue Like This Has Very Little To Do With Good Novel Dialogue. It's A Matter Of Getting That Awful Tyranny Of Mimesis Out Of Your Mind, Which Is Difficult.

I Must Fight With My Weapons. Not His. Not Selfishness And Brutality And Shame And Resentment.