I'm A Hopeless 19th-century Romantic.

We Carry The Dead With Us Only Until We Die Too, And Then It Is We Who Are Borne Along For A Little While, And Then Our Bearers In Their Turn Drop, And So On Into The Unimaginable Generations.

You Will Remember This When All Else Fades, This Moment, Here, Together, By This Well. There Will Be Certain Days, And Certain Nights, You’ll Feel My Presence Near You, Hear My Voice. You’ll Think You Have Imagined It And Yet, Inside You, You Will Catch An Answering Cry. On April Evenings, When The Rain Has Ceased, Your Heart Will Shake, You’ll Weep For Nothing, Pine For What’s Not There. For You, This Life Will Never Be Enough, There Will Forever Be An Emptiness, Where Once The God Was All In All In You.

In Order Really To Write One Has To Sink Deep Into The Self And Become Lost There.

The Trouble With You, Vic," He Said, "is That You Think Of The World As A Sort Of Huge Museum With Too Many Visitors Allowed In.

I'm Full Of Self-doubt. I Doubt Everything I Do. Everything I Do Is A Failure.