I Often Felt Myself To Be An

A Single Note, Held In An Amber Suspension Of Time, Like A Charcoal Drawing Of Icarus Falling. It Was Sad And Fierce All At Once, Alive With A Lonely Purity. It Went On And On, Until My Own Lungs Were Burning. “what Bird Are You Calling?” I Asked Finally, When I Couldn’t Stand It Any Longer. The Bird Man Stopped Whistling. He Grinned, So That I Could See All His Pebbly Teeth. “you.

So Much Of The Way Books Get Classified Has To Do With Marketing Decisions. I Think It's More Useful To Think Of Literary Books And Sci-fi/fantasy Books As Existing On A Continuum.

Sometimes It Can Feel Like The Whole Globe Is Spinning With Irredeemable Losses, Capricious Natural Disasters And Crimes So Outrageously Evil They Dismantle Any Attempt To Solve Or Explain Them.

Given The Brevity Of Our Time Here, It Does Seem Likely That Our Species, Too, Must Have At Best A Blinkered Understanding Of The Shape Of Things, The Import Of Certain Events And What Distinguishes "good" From "bad" Luck.

I Have Friends Who Are Capable Of Writing A Very Rough Draft And Then Going Back And Embroidering - They're Sort Of The Cathedral Builders Of Fiction. I Never Really Know What I'm Doing, And All My Pleasure's On The Level Of The Line. It's A Weird Way To Move Forward. It's Kind Of Like A Way To Caterpillar Your Way Through These Great Woods. The Best Ones, Whatever I Feel Like I'm Writing About, Some Other Secret Thing Will Begin To Come Into Focus.