Sleep Is When All The

My Yesterdays Walk With Me. They Keep Step, They Are Gray Faces That Peer Over My Shoulder.

Kill The Pig. Cut Her Throat. Spill Her Blood.

Don't Get Me Wrong. I Have Nothing Against This As A Method, But It Is Not What English Writers Do.

The Mask Was A Thing On It's Own, Behind Which Jack Hid, Liberated From Shame And Self-conciousness.

Put Simply The Novel Stands Between Us And The Hardening Concept Of Statistical Man. There Is No Other Medium In Which We Can Live For So Long And So Intimately With A Character. That Is The Service A Novel Renders.