Those Who Tell The Truth Shall Lie

To write, and to write characters and enter their minds in their situations, is to say you know them. This is not true. To affect others’ truth is, also, duplicity.

Long live the Queen, the Islanders, and all the things that come when they mix.

Long live the Upper Cut.

Long live the opposite of Fame, not Infamy, but the state in which a man turns away, his acquiescence when you approach him is also Rage.

Long live the Lambasters and the Quiet.

There was one Great Dragon and in its flaring nostrils was only a green snot.

There were two boys in whose football dreams were much Magic.

There were sixteen factory buildings whose floors were covered with empty, never filled bottles, and whose ceilings were high.

There were sixteen hundred and only sixteen hundred wrong Ideas and there was Persuasion and there were infants who, in having ready brains, when they were born hurt their Mothers, there was no finding Identity like a treasure marked X may be found, only the idea we should find it and should have found it and should affect having found it and must weep alone and buy white Audis because people no longer see in us the possibility of finding it, Plenitude, and there were moments of such Sadness they beggared even the purplest of descriptions, but not of Happiness, and there were Lies more beautiful and plentiful than the truths they tend to.

There were some Ways Through.

And there are too few of Me. This Me now.