Civilised My Syphilised Yarbles.

The Trombones Crunched Redgold Under My Bed, And Behind My Gulliver The Trumpets Three-wise Silverflamed, And There By The Door The Timps Rolling Through My Guts And Out Again Crunched Like Candy Thunder. Oh, It Was Wonder Of Wonders. And Then, A Bird Of Like Rarest Spun Heavenmetal, Or Like Silvery Wine Flowing In A Spaceship, Gravity All Nonsense Now, Came The Violin Solo Above All The Other Strings, And Those Strings Were Like A Cage Of Silk Around My Bed. Then Flute And Oboe Bored, Like Worms Of Like Platinum, Into The Thick Thick Toffee Gold And Silver. I Was In Such Bliss, My Brothers.

The Book I Am Best Known For, Or Only Known For, Is A Novel I Am Prepared To Repudiate: Written A Quarter Of A Century Ago, A Jeu D'esprit Knocked Off For Money In Three Weeks, It Became Known As The Raw Material For A Film Which Seemed To Glorify Sex And Violence. The Film Made It Easy For Readers Of The Book To Misunderstand What It Was About, And The Misunderstanding Will Pursue Me Till I Die. I Should Not Have Written The Book Because Of This Danger Of Misinterpretation.

...youth Is Only Being In A Way Like It Might Be An Animal. No, It Is Not Just Like Being An Animal So Much As Being Like One Of These Malenky Toys You Viddy Being Sold In The Streets, Like Little Chellovecks Made Out Of Tin And With A Spring Inside And Then A Winding Handle On The Outside And You Wind It Up Grrr Grrr Grrr And Off It Itties, Like Walking, O My Brothers. But It Itties In A Straight Line And Bangs Straight Into Things Bang Bang And It Cannot Help What It Is Doing. Being Young Is Like Being Like One Of These Malenky Machines.

Then, Brothers, It Came. Oh, Bliss, Bliss And Heaven. I Lay All Nagoy To The Ceiling, My Gulliver On My Rookers On The Pillow, Glazzies Closed, Rot Open In Bliss, Slooshying The Sluice Of Lovely Sounds. Oh, It Was Gorgeousness And Gorgeosity Made Flesh.

What's It Going To Be Then, Eh?