And How Does God Speak To You?"

I Follow My Own Nose. So I Read Things That Are Different. People Will Always Say To Me, "have You Read Robert S. Bosco's Latest Novel?" Or "have You Read So And So's History Of Peru, Which Is Reviewed In The New York Review Of Books And The New York Times And Has A Buzz About It?" I Don't Even Know What You're Talking About. I'm Like From Another Planet. I'm A Pygmy From The Jungle.

My Father Ran London Films. He Made Films Like 'the Red Shoes,' 'the Third Man.' And He Had Had A Long Career In The Film Business, Which Was Bifurcated With A Career In Intelligence. He Had To Deal With Gangsters, And Sometimes He Would Take Me With Him. Also, I Went To School With Their Children.

She Died On A Windy Gray Day In March When The Sky Was Full Of Darting Crows And The World Lay Prostrate And Defeated After Winter. Peter Lake Was At Her Side And It Ruined Him Forever. It Broke Him As He Had Not Ever Imagined He Could Have Been Broken. He Would Never Again Be Young, Or Able To Remember What It Was Like To Be Young. What He Had Once Taken To Be Pleasures Would Appear To Him In His Defeat As Hideous And Deserved Punishments For Reckless Vanity.

If It Weren't For Music, I Would Think That Love Is Mortal.

Accident Is As Much A Part Of Fiction As Anything Else, Symbolic Of The Grace That, Along With Will, Conspires To Put Words On The Page.