The Past Is What You

I Was Brought Up In The War. I Was An Adolescent In The Second World War. And I Did Witness In London A Great Deal Of The Blitz.

When The Storm Is Over And Night Falls And The Moon Is Out In All Its Glory And All You're Left With Is The Rhythm Of The Sea, Of The Waves, You Know What God Intended For The Human Race, You Know What Paradise Is.

One Is And Is Not In The Centre Of The Maelstrom Of It All.

A Writer's Life Is A Highly Vulnerable, Almost Naked Activity. We Don't Have To Weep About That. The Writer Makes His Choice And Is Stuck With It. But It Is True To Say That You Are Open To All The Winds, Some Of Them Icy Indeed. You Are Out On Your Own, Out On A Limb. You Find No Shelter, No Protection - Unless You Lie - In Which Case Of Course You Have Constructed Your Own Protection And, It Could Be Argued, Become A Politician.

I Suggest That Us Foreign Policy Can Still Be Defined As "kiss My Ass Or I'll Kick Your Head In." But Of Course It Doesn't Put It Like That. It Talks Of "low Intensity Conflict..." What All This Adds Up To Is A Disease At The Very Centre Of Language, So That Language Becomes A Permanent Masquerade, A Tapestry Of Lies.