Literature is all, or mostly, about sex.

What critics often ask for is the impossible, though this may be a salutary means of extending the borders of art.

Evil has to exist along with good, in order that moral choice may operate.

Beckett does not believe in God, though he seems to imply that God has committed an unforgivable sin by not existing.

For no man is damned precisely because God hath not chosen him, because he is not elected, but because he is a sinner, and doth wilfully refuse the means of grace offered.

I chart a little first-list of names, rough synopsis of chapters, and so on. But one daren't overplan; so many things are generated by the sheer act of writing.

Civilised my syphilised yarbles.