It's A Terrible Poison, Writing.

I Have A Dreadful Fear That The More You Try To Prevent Revealing The Self The More You Do.

In My Mind's Eye Shakespeare Is A Huge, Hot Sea-beast, With Fire In His Veins And Ice On His Claws And Inscrutable Eyes, Who Looks Like An Inchoate Hump Under The Encrustations Of Live Barnacle-commentaries, Limpets And Trailing Weeds.

In Our World Of Sleek Flesh And Collagen, Botox And Liposuction, What We Most Fear Is The Dissolution Of The Body-mind, The Death Of The Brain.

She Was A Logical Child, As Far As Children Go. She Did Not Understand How Such A Nice, Kind, Good God As The One They Preyed To, Could Condemn The Whole Earth For Sinfulness And Flood It, Or Condemn His Only Son To A Disgusting Death On Behalf Of Everyone. This Death Did Not Seem To Have Done Much Good.

Coherence And Closure Are Deep Human Desires That Are Presently Unfashionable. But They Are Always Both Frightening And Enchantingly Desirable. "falling In Love," Characteristically, Combs The Appearances Of The Word, And Of The Particular Lover's History, Out Of A Random Tangle And Into A Coherent Plot.