The Future Continues To Preoccupy Me As

Modernism Has A Reputation For Being A Forbidding Phenomenon: Its Visual Arts Disconcertingly Non-representational, Its Literary Efforts Devoid Of The Consolations Of Plot And Character - Even Its Films, It's Argued, Fall Well Short Of That True Desideratum: Entertainment.

There Can Be No More Thrilling Idea Of Intimacy That Connecting With Someone Through The Agency Of The Written Word. Here We Meet, On The Page, Naked And Unadorned: Shorn Of Class, Race, Gender, Sexual Identity, Age And Nationality. The Reader I Seek Is A Tautology, For He/she Is Simply Exactly The Person Who Wants To Read What I Have Written...

I'm Going To End Up Like One Of Those Old Weirdos Who Lives In A Network Of Tunnels Burrowed Through Trash - Yet I Do Not Fear This.

Is There Anything More Useless Than A Crouton? I Sometimes Wake Up In The Small Hours With A Start And Realise That What's Roused Me Is An Overpowering Urge To Visit Violence On Its Originator.

As A Bookish Adolescent, I Sopped Up Texts As If I Were Blotting Paper And They Were Fluid.