My Life Was Incoherent To Me. I

I Was The Goldfish That Leapt Out Of The Bowl.

In My Early Twenties, That's When I Really Began To Write. Before That, I Was Too Busy Working, Keeping Myself Going.

The Language Of Labels Is Like Paper Money, Issued Irresponsibly, With Nothing Of Intrinsic Value Behind It, That Is, With No Effort Of The Intelligence To See, To Really Apprehend.

A Year And A Half After The End Of The War And The German Occupation, Paris Was Muted And Looked Bruised And Forlorn. Everywhere I Went, I Sensed The Tracks Of The Wolf That Had Tried To Devour The City. But Paris Proved Inedible, As It Had Been Ever Since Its Tribal Beginnings On An Island In The Seine, The Ile De La Cité.

I Like To Cook; It Is, For Me, A Happy Combination Of Mindlessness And Purpose.