Nothing Made Me Happen. I Happened.

I Found, And Find, The Scrutiny Of Dr. Lecter Uncomfortable, Intrusive, Like The Humming Of Your Thoughts When They X-ray Your Head.

There Is A Common Emotion We All Recognize And Have Not Yet Named -- The Happy Anticipation Of Being Able To Feel Contempt.

Hannibal At Eighteen Was Rooting For Mephistopheles And Contemptuous Of Faust, But He Only Half-listened To The Climax. He Was Watching And Breathing Lady Murasaki...

I Expect Most Psychiatrists Have A Patient Or Two They'd Like To Refer To Me.

But The Face On The Pillow, Rosy In The Firelight, Is Certainly That Of Clarice Starling, And She Sleeps Deeply, Sweetly, In The Silence Of The Lambs.