The real mystery is this strange need. Why can't we just hide it and shut up? Why do we have to blab? Why do human beings need to confess?

One day God felt he ought to give his workshop a spring clean... It was amazing what ragged bits and pieces came from under his workbench as he swept. Beginnings of creatures, bits that looked useful but had seemed wrong, ideas he'd mislaid and forgotten... There was even a tiny lump of sun. He scratched his head. What could be done with all this rubbish?

You could become internationally famous - you're Gemini, and according to antique authority have a literary talent, which of course your letters prove.

He could not stand. It was not That he could not thrive, he was born With everything but the will – That can be deformed, just like a limb. Death was more interesting to him. Life could not get his attention.

Where white is black and black is white, I won.

What’s writing really about? It’s about trying to take fuller possession of the reality of your life.

Prose, narratives, etcetera, can carry healing. Poetry does it more intensely.