Words Are Like Leaves,. .

Everything Comes To An End. A Good Bottle Of Wine, A Summer’s Day, A Long-running Sitcom, One’s Life, And Eventually Our Species. The Question For Many Of Us Is Not That Everything Will Come To An End But When. And Can We Do Anything Vaguely Useful Until It Does?

Writing Is A Subtle Art That Is Reached Mostly By Self-discovery And Experimentation.

People Who Read My Books Have An Open Mind When It Comes To New, Bizarre, Interesting And Exciting Ideas.

I Got Oedipus Off The Incest Charge--technicality, Of Course--he Didn't Know It Was His Mother At The Time.

Whereas Story Is Processed In The Mind In A Straightforward Manner, Poetry Bypasses Rational Thought And Goes Straight To The Limbic System And Lights It Up Like A Brushfire. It's The Crack Cocaine Of The Literary World.