Everything Our Civilization Has Produced Is Entombed.

No One Can Explain Exactly What Happens Within Us When The Doors Behind Which Our Childhood Terrors Lurk Are Flung Open.

A Tight Structural Form Opens Possibilities. Take A Pattern, An Established Model Or Sub-genre, And Write To It. In Writing, Limitation Gives Freedom

And So They Are Ever Returning To Us, The Dead.

The Moral Backbone Of Literature Is About That Whole Question Of Memory. To My Mind It Seems Clear That Those Who Have No Memory Have The Much Greater Chance To Lead Happy Lives.

Time, That Most Abstract Of Humanity's Homes.