Is Not This World An Illusion? And

It May Be The First In What I Trust Will Be A Rapidly Growing And Influential Genre--the Novel Designed On Purpose To Be Excludedfrom The Booker Short-list.

What Do You See When You See Me?' She Asked Him, Burying Her Own Face In His Bosom. 'do You Want The Truth?' She Nodded. 'the Firing Squad.' 'that's Not The Whole Truth. Try Again.' 'insatiability,' He Said With Some Bitterness. 'that's Oblique But Altogether Too Simple. Once More,' She Insisted. 'one More Time.' He Was Silent For Several Minutes. 'the Map Of A Country In Which I Only Exist By Virtue Of The Extravagance Of My Metaphors.' 'now You're Being Too Sophisticated. And, Besides, What Metaphors Do We Have In Common?

She Said To The Daisy Girl With Her Big Brown Eyes: 'i Will Not Have It Plain. No. Fancy. It Must Be Fancy!' She Meant Her Future. A Moon-daisy Dropped To The Floor, Down From Her Hair, Like A Faintly Derisive Sign From Heaven.

[t]ea, That Uniquely English Meal, That Unnecessary Collation At Which No Stimulants--neither Alcohol Nor Meat--are Served, That Comforting Repast Of Which To Partake Is As Good As Second Childhood.

You Were The Living Image Of The Entire Platonic Shadow Show, An Illusion That Could Fill My Emptiness With Marvellous, Imaginary Things As Long As, Just As Long As, The Movie Lasted, And Then All Would All Vanish.