My Mother Once Told Me She Thought

Every Now And Then Life Sold You An Illusion Of Design. A Coincidence, A Parallel, A Sledgehammer Symbol. The Goods Were Always Faulty. You Forked Over The Cash Only To Discover They'd Fallen Apart By The Time You Got Home. But Life Kept At It. Life Couldn't Help It. Life Was A Compulsive Salesman.

There’s A Reason Humans Peg-out Around Eighty: Prose Fatigue. It Looks Like Organ Failure Or Cancer Or Stroke But It’s Really Just The Inability To Carry On Clambering Through The Assault Course Of Mundane Cause And Effect. If We Ask Sheila Then We Can’t Ask Ron. If I Have The Kippers Now Then It’s Quiche For Tea. Four Score Years Is About All The Ifs And Thens You Can Take. Dementia’s The Sane Realisation You Just Can’t Be Doing With All That Anymore.

She Understood The Genre Constraints, The Decencies Were Supposed To Be Observing. The Morally Cosy Vision Allows The Embrace Of Monstrosity Only As A Reaction To Suffering Or As An Act Of Rage Against The Almighty. Vampire Interviewee Louis Is In Despair At His Brother’s Death When He Accepts Lestat’s Offer. Frankenstein’s Creature Is Driven To Violence By The Violence Done To Him. Even Lucifer’s Rebellion Emerges From The Agony Of Injured Price. The Message Is Clear: By All Means Become An Abomination—but Only While Unhinged By Grief Or Wrath.

I'll Tell You Something,' She Said. 'i'm Not Sure I Ever Really Liked Him.' Adam?' I Said. 'i Don't Blame You.' 'not Adam,' She Said, Struggling To Swallow A Greedily Chomped Chunk. 'god.

Yes, Eden Was Beautiful- And If I Had To Squeeze Through Corporeal Keyholes To Crash It- So Be It. (hasn’t It Bothered You, This Part Of The Story, My Being There, I Mean? What Was I Doing There? ‘presume Not The Ways Of God To Scan,’ You’ve Been Told In Umpteen Variations, ‘the Proper Study Of Mankind Is Man.’ Maybe So, But What, Excuse Me, Was The Devil Doing In Eden?) I Took The Forms Of Animals. I Found I Could. (that’s Generally My Reason For Doing Something, By The Way, Because I Find I Can.)