Most Of The Time In

Between The Kitchen And The Destroyed Chapel A Door Led Into An Oval-shaped Library. The Space Inside Seemed Safe Except For A Large Hole At Portrait Level In The Far Wall, Caused By Mortar-shell Attack On The Villa Two Months Earlier. The Rest Of The Room Had Adapted Itself To This Wound, Accepting The Habits Of Weather, Evening Stars, The Sound Of Birds.

There Is A Story, Always Ahead Of You. Barely Existing. Only Gradually Do You Attach Yourself To It And Feed It. You Discover The Carapace That Will Contain And Test Your Character. You Will Find In This Way The Path Of Your Life.

There's A Lot Of Thievery Involved In Writing. You're Breaking Into Other People's Spaces And Other People's Stories.

The Music Of Gavin Bryars Falls Under No Category. It Is Mongrel, Full Of Sensuality And Wit And Is Deeply Moving. He Is One Of The Few Composers Who Can Put Slapstick And Primal Emotion Alongside Each Other. He Allows You To Witness New Wonders In The Sounds Around You By Approaching Them From A Completely New Angle. With A Third Ear Maybe.

He Knows That The Only Way He Can Accept Losing Her Is If He Can Continue To Hold Her Or Be Held By Her. If They Can Somehow Nurse Each Other Out Of This. Not With A Wall.