A Man Kills The Thing He Loves,

I Am A Man, And Men Are Animals Who Tell Stories. This Is A Gift From God, Who Spoke Our Species Into Being, But Left The End Of Our Story Untold. That Mystery Is Troubling To Us. How Could It Be Otherwise? Without The Final Part, We Think, How Are We To Make Sense Of All That Went Before: Which Is To Say, Our Lives? So We Make Stories Of Our Own, In Fevered And Envious Imitation Of Our Maker, Hoping That We'll Tell, By Chance, What God Left Untold. And Finishing Our Tale, Come To Understand Why We Were Born.

Writing A Book Is Like Masturbation, And Making A Movie Is Like An Orgy.

My Father Used To Say: Every Bird Is One Bird, And Every Book Is One Book, And Every Bird And Every Book Is One Thing Too, Under The Words And The Feathers." He Finished With A Flourish, As Though The Meaning Of This Was Self-evident.

We Are All Our Own Graveyards, I Believe; We Squat Amongst The Tombs Of The People We Were. If We're Healthy, Every Day Is A Celebration, A Day Of The Dead, In Which We Give Thanks For The Lives That We Lived, And If We Are Neurotic We Brood And Mourn And Wish That The Past Was Still Present.

You Are My Beauty, My Body, Perfected. All I Was Drained Off Into You. When You Left, My Health Went With You - Leaving A Moral Morbidity I Smell In My Sleep. The Acts I Committed For The Love Of You. Acts I Can Never Forget. I Crawled Into The Bellies Of The Dead To Fish Out A Little Life... I Have An Appetite For It Now. I Have An Unrelenting Lust For Death.