All of this happened a long time ago. But not so long ago that everyone who played a part in it is dead. Some can still be met in dark old rooms with nurses in attendance.

Literature was intended to be dangerous. Art was meant to be dangerous. Ideas were nothing if they were not dangerous.

Nothing so completely verifies our perception of a thing as our killing of it.

Everyone who’s born has come from the sea. Your mother’s womb is just a sea in small. And birds come of seas on eggs. Horses lie in the sea before they’re born. The placenta is the sea. Your blood is the sea continued in your veins. We are the ocean — walking on the land.

They waited. The door did not open. The rain did not stop. The darkness made a tent and covered them completely.

I still maintain that an ordinary human being has the right to be horrified by a mangled body seen on an afternoon walk.

I write against violence. I write against fascism. I write against one person dominating another.