We All Act As Hinges-fortuitous Links Between

In Old Age, You Realise That While You're Divided From Your Youth By Decades, You Can Close Your Eyes And Summon It At Will. As A Writer It Puts One At A Distinct Advantage.

I Can Remember The Lush Spring Excitement Of Language In Childhood. Sitting In Church, Rolling It Around My Mouth Like Marbles--tabernacle And Pharisee And Parable, Tresspass And Babylon And Covenant.

I Can Walk About London And See A Society That Seems An Absolutely Revolutionary Change From The 1950s, That Seems Completely And Utterly Different, And Then I Can Pick Up On Something Where You Suddenly See That It's Not.

The Photograph Is Concerned With The Power That The Past Has To Interfere With The Present: The Time Bomb In The Cupboard.

I Am Addicted To Arrivals, To Those Innocent Dawn Moments From Which History Accelerates.