She Sleepwalked From Moment To

I Believe The Novella Is The Perfect Form Of Prose Fiction. It Is The Beautiful Daughter Of A Rambling, Bloated Ill-shaven Giant (but A Giant Who's A Genius On His Best Days).

Could It Ever Be Explained, How Matter Becomes Conscious?

Four Or Five Years - Nothing At All. But No One Over Thirty Could Understand This Peculiarly Weighted And Condensed Time, From Late Teens To Early Twenties, A Stretch Of Life That Needed A Name, From School Leaver To Salaried Professional, With A University And Affairs And Death And Choices In Between. I Had Forgotten How Recent My Childhood Was, How Long And Inescapable It Once Seemed. How Grown Up And How Unchanged I Was.

Dying In Unfamiliar Surroundings Miles Away From Home, It Cannot Possibly Be Good. There Is A Great Sadness About That I Think.

None Of Us Really Either Know The Circumstances Of Our Death Or Are Likely To Exert As Much Control Over It As We Would Like To, But We Can Certainly Have A Little More Say In It If We Are Terminally Ill Than We Have At The Moment. That's The Element Of Dignity, But Sure, Life Is Very Hard To Organise Even When You Are Fit And Healthy.