A Novel, In The End,

If The Garden Of Eden Really Exists It Does So Moment By Moment, Fragmented And Tough, Cropping Up Like A Fan Of Buddleia High Up In The Gutter Of A Deserted Warehouse, Or In A Heap Of Frozen Cabbages Becoming Luminous In The Reflected Light Of Roadside Snow.

For You Where Never My Blood Sister So No More Shall I Call You Little Sister

When You Are Young You Don't Always Realise How Full Of Doubts Everybody Is.

Mourning Ruby Is Not A Flat Landscape: It Is More Like A Box With Pictures Painted On Every Face. And Each Face Is Also A Door Which Opens, I Hope, To Take The Reader Deep Into The Book.

Once One Habit Peels Away The Others Follow It. You Have To Hold On, Or The Next Thing You'll Find Yourself Parading Down The Street In Your Nightdress. Habit Is Everything.