It's Not The Fish You Catch, It's

Genre Fiction, As Terry Pratchett Has Pointed Out, Is A Stew. You Take Stuff Out Of The Pot, You Put Stuff Back. The Stew Bubbles On.

All Your Tomorrows Start Here.

There Were Faces At The Windows And Words Written In Blood; Deep In The Crypt A Lonely Ghoul Crunched On Something That Might Once Have Been Alive; Forked Lightnings Slashed The Ebony Night; The Faceless Were Walking; All Was Right With The World

Call No Man Happy, Said Shadow, Until He Is Dead

I Found English To Be A Sort Of Thomas Hardy Aversion Therapy.