But Death's Acquisitive Instincts Will Win.

My Protagonists Are My Mother's Voice And The Mind I Had When I Was Thirteen.

I Distrust Summaries, Any Kind Of Gliding Through Time, Any Too Great A Claim That One Is In Control Of What One Recounts; I Think Someone Who Claims To Understand But Is Obviously Calk, Someone Who Claims To Write With Emotion Recollected In Tranquility, Is A Fool And A Liar. To Understand Is To Tremble. To Recollect Is To Re-enter And Be Riven. ... I Admire The Authority Of Being On One's Knees In Front Of The Event.

I Am Sensible Of The Velocity Of The Moments, And Entering That Part Of My Head Alert To The Motion Of The World I Am Aware That Life Was Never Perfect, Never Absolute. This Bestows Contentment, Even A Fearlessness.

But Death's Acquisitive Instincts Will Win.

Being Ill Like This Combines Shock - This Time I Will Die - With A Pain And Agony That Are Unfamiliar, That Wrench Me Out Of Myself.