Do I do as false prophets do and puff air into simulacra? Am I a Sorcerer--like Macbeth's witches--mixing truth and lies in incandescent shapes? Or am I a kind of very minor scribe of a prophetic Book--telling such truth as in me lies, with aid of such fiction as I acknowledge mine, as Prospero acknowledged Caliban.

Outside our small safe place flies mystery.

I don't see much point in doing things for a pure joke. Every now and then you need a joke, but not so much as the people who spend all their lives constructing joke palaces think you do.

History, writing, infect after a time a man's sense of himself.

Vocabularies are crossing circles and loops. We are defined by the lines we choose to cross or to be confined by.

Things are not what they seem.

Narrative is one of the best intoxicants or tranquilisers.