In Our World We Sleep And Eat

They Passed Out Of The Shade Beneath The Eaves And Flew Into Sunglare And Silence And It Was An Action She Only Partly Saw, Elusive And Mutely Beautiful, The Birds So Sunstruck They Were Consumed By Light, Disembodied, Turned Into Something Sheer And Fleet And Scatter-bright.

One Connection I See Between Novelists And Terrorists Is That We Both Attempt To Alter Consciousness.

Silence, Exile, Cunning And So On... It's My Nature To Keep Quiet About Most Things. Even The Ideas In My Work.

I Watch Movies Occasionally, And I Watch Documentaries. Virtually Nothing Else.

What We Are Reluctant To Touch Often Seems The Very Fabric Of Our Salvation.