It's A Terrible Thing, Isn't It, The

He Had The Vague Sense Of Standing On A Threshold, The Crossing Of Which Would Change Everything.

I Sound Contemptuous, But I Am Not. I Am Interested--intrigued Even--by The Way Time Erases Real Lives, Leaving Only Vague Imprints. Blood And Spirit Fade Away So That Only Names And Dates Remain.

I'd Pretty Much Given Up Hope Of Being Published, So I Just Wrote The Book I Wanted To Read.

Round And Round The Questions Flew, Until Finally I Found Myself Standing At The Open Door Of A Bookshop. It’s Natural In Times Of Great Perplexity, I Think, To Seek Out The Familiar, And The High Shelves And Long Rows Of Neatly Lined-up Spines Were Immensely Reassuring. Amid The Smell Of Ink And Binding, The Dusty Motes In Beams Of Strained Sunlight, The Embrace Of Warm, Tranquil Air, I Felt That I Could Breathe More Easily.

It Is A Cruel, Ironical Art, Photography. The Dragging Of Captured Moments Into The Future; Moments That Should Have Been Allowed To Be Evaporate Into The Past; Should Exist Only In Memories, Glimpsed Through The Fog Of Events That Came After. Photographs Force Us To See People Before Their Future Weighed Them Down.