The Writer Is All Alone.

After All, We Make Ourselves According To The Ideas We Have Of Our Possibilities.

The Past Has To Be Seen To Be Dead; Or The Past Will Kill.

In Our Island Myth This Was The Prescribed End Of Marriages Like Mine: The Wife Goes Off With Someone From The Cercle Sportif, Outside Whose Gates At Night The Willingly Betrayed Husband Waits In His Motorcar. The Circumstances Were Slightly.

In A Way My Reputation Has Become That Of The Curmudgeon.

I'm My Own Writer. My Material Means I'm Entirely Separate.