I Didn't Write Anything Until

Language Tethers Us To The World; Without It We Spin Like Atoms.

Grief-stricken. Stricken Is Right; It Is As Though You Had Been Felled. Knocked To The Ground; Pitched Out Of Life And Into Something Else.

I Didn't Want It To Be A Book That Made Pronouncements.

And In Another Year Everything Will Be Different Yet Again. It Is Always Like That, And Always Will Be; You Are Forever Standing On The Brink, In A Place Where You Cannot See Ahead; There Is Nothing Of Which To Be Certain Except What Lies Behind. This Should Be Terrifying, But Somehow It Is Not.

Every Novel Generates Its Own Climate, When You Get Going.