Life Is Nothing But A Statement Of

Yes, Eden Was Beautiful- And If I Had To Squeeze Through Corporeal Keyholes To Crash It- So Be It. (hasn’t It Bothered You, This Part Of The Story, My Being There, I Mean? What Was I Doing There? ‘presume Not The Ways Of God To Scan,’ You’ve Been Told In Umpteen Variations, ‘the Proper Study Of Mankind Is Man.’ Maybe So, But What, Excuse Me, Was The Devil Doing In Eden?) I Took The Forms Of Animals. I Found I Could. (that’s Generally My Reason For Doing Something, By The Way, Because I Find I Can.)

I'm With Milton And The Rolling Stones: I Don't Find The Devil An Unsympathetic Character. But In Any Case, My Fiction Is Populated As Much By People Who Do Good As It Is By Those Who Do Bad. I'm Interested In Imaginatively Accommodating As Much Of The Human As Possible, For Which You Need Both Moral Extremes And Everything In Between.

Coffee Justifies The Existence Of The Word 'aroma'.

Snow Makes Cities Innocent Again, Reveals The Frailty Of The Human Gesture Against The Void.

Poets Suffer Occasional Delusions Of Angelhood And Find Themselves Condemned To Express It In The Bric-a-brac Tongues Of The Human World. Lots Of Them Go Mad.