Anyone Who Hasn't Experienced The Ecstasy Of

I Could Not Take Lightly The Idea That People Made Love Without Me.

Ah Those Knock-out Body Fluids: Blood, Sperm, Tears!

I'm Homosexual. How And Why Are Idle Questions. It's A Little Like Wanting To Know Why My Eyes Are Green.

They Remain Dead, The People I Try To Resuscitate By Straining To Hear What They Say. But The Illusion Is Not Pointless, Or Not Quite, Even If The Reader Knows All This Better Than I Do. One Thing A Book Tries To Do, Beneath The Disguise Of Words And Causes And Clothes And Grief, Is Show The Skeleton And The Skeleton Dust To Come. The Author Too, Like Those Of Whom He Speaks, Is Dead.

In Order To Weep, I Had Descended To The Realm Of The Dead Themselves, To Their Secret Chambers, Led By The Invisible But Soft Hands Of Birds Down Stairways Which Were Folded Up Again As I Advanced. I Displayed My Grief In The Friendly Fields Of Death, Far From Men: Within Myself.