How Many Human Eyes...had Snatched

For A Writer, And Particularly A Writer Of My Genre, Which Is The Fantastical, I Think That It's To My Advantage To Feel Remote From And Disconnected From The World Of Deal Making.

At Best You Can Hold Death At Bay, You Can Pretend It Isn't There; But To Deny It Totally Is A Sickness. And I Think That Horror Fiction Is One Of The Ways To Approach These Problems, And, Perversely Perhaps, To Enjoy A Vicarious Confrontation With Them.

The Paintings Of Francis Bacon To My Eye Are Very Beautiful. The Paintings Of Bosch Or Goya Are To My Eye Very Beautiful. I've Also Stood In Front Of Those Same Paintings With People Who've Said, 'let's Get On To The Botticellis As Soon As Possible.' I Have Lingered, Of Course.

I Dreamed I Spoke In Another's Language, I Dreamed I Lived In Another's Skin, I Dreamed I Was My Own Beloved, I Dreamed I Was A Tiger's Kin. I Dreamed That Eden Lived Inside Me, And When I Breathed A Garden Came, I Dreamed I Knew All Of Creation, I Dreamed I Knew The Creator's Name. I Dreamed--and This Dream Was The Finest-- That All I Dreamed Was Real And True, And We Would Live In Joy Forever, You In Me, And Me In You.

We Have Great Cities To Visit: New York And Washington, Paris And London; And Further East, And Older Than Any Of These, The Legendary City Of Samarkand, Whose Crumbling Palaces And Mosques Still Welcome Travelers On The Silk Road. Weary Of Cities? Then We’ll Take To The Wilds. To The Islands Of Hawaii And The Mountains Of Japan, To Forests Where Civil War Dead Still Lie, And Stretches Of Sea No Mariner Ever Crossed. They All Have Their Poetry: The Glittering Cities And The Ruined, The Watery Wastes And The Dusty; I Want To Show You Them All. I Want To Show You Everything.