I Think I Want To Be In

Moonlight, White Satin, Roses. A Bride.

Why Do You Do Up Your Hair In Those Tortured Plaits, Now, Melanie? Why? Because, She Said. You Know That's No Answer. You're Spoiling Your Pretty Looks, Pet. Come Here. She Did Not Move. He Ground Out His Cigarette On The Window-ledge And Laughed. Come Here, He Said Again, Softly. So She Went.

The Only Time I Ever Iron The Sheets Or Make Meringues Is When There Is An ... Urgent Deadline In The Offing.

Midnight, And The Clock Strikes. It Is Christmas Day, The Werewolves Birthday, The Door Of The Solstice Still Wide Enough Open To Let Them All Slink Through.

F.r. Leavis's "eat Up Your Broccoli" Approach To Fiction Emphasises This Junkfood/wholefood Dichotomy. If Reading A Novel--for Theeighteenth Century Reader, The Most Frivolous Of Diversions--did Not, By The Middle Of The Twentieth Century, Make You A Better Person In Some Way, Then You Might As Well Flush The Offending Volume Down The Toilet, Which Was By Far The Best Place For The Undigested Excreta Of Dubious Nourishment.