Continents Of Memory Had Been Lost.

Franz Kafka Is An Idea Person. His Books Begin And End In Ideas. Ideas Have Always Been Important To Me In My Writing. To The Point That I Have To Be Careful That They Don't Take Over.

I Go To Live In Maine For The Summer. Without Computer, And Without The Telephone Service We Are Mercifully Without The Faxes And E-mails. So It's Really About Two And A Half Months That I'll Feel Like I Can Recover Some Silence In My Life...which Is So Hard To Find.

You Say, "something Important Really Happened Here. I Really Had Hold Of Something I Was Visited By The Muse." And That's Enough To Make You Continue The Months And Years To Finish The Whole Book.

But What Is The Past? Could It Be, The Firmness Of The Past Is Just Illusion? Could The Past Be A Kaleidoscope, A Pattern Of Images That Shift With Each Disturbance Of A Sudden Breeze, A Laugh, A Thought? And If The Shift Is Everywhere, How Would We Know?

No One Knows The Nature Of God, Or Even If God Exists. In A Sense, All Of Our Religions Are Literary Works Of The Imagination.