At some point in life the world's beauty becomes enough. You don't need to photograph, paint or even remember it. It is enough.

Long before I was a success, my parents made me feel like I could be one.

And they beat. The women for having known them and no more, no more; the children for having been them but never again. They killed a boss so often and so completely they had to bring him back to life to pulp him one more time. Tasting hot mealcake among pine trees, they beat it away. Singing love songs to Mr. Death, they smashed his head. More than the rest, they killed the flirt whom folks called Life for leading them on.

What's the world for you if you can't make it up the way you want it?

It was my father who could do no wrong. So I didn't think of it as, oh, look, my father's a violent man.

Deep, deep trouble. Can't rival the dead for love. Lose every time.

Never did he once consider directing his hatred toward the hunters. Such an emotion would have destroyed him ... His subconscious knew what his min did not guess-that hating them would have consumed him, burned him up like a piece of soft coal, leaving only flakes of ash and a question mark of smoke.