I Do Myself Think That History Is

The Fate Of Peoples Is Made Like This, Two Men In Small Rooms. Forget The Coronations, The Conclaves Of Cardinals, The Pomp And Processions. This Is How The World Changes: A Counter Pushed Across A Table, A Pen Stroke That Alters The Force Of A Phrase, A Woman's Sigh As She Passes And Leaves On The Air A Trail Of Orange Flower Or Rose Water; Her Hand Pulling Close The Bed Curtain, The Discreet Sigh Of Flesh Against Flesh.

I Am Very Happy In Second-hand Bookshops; Would A Gardener Not Be Happy In A Garden?

Over The City Lies The Sweet, Rotting Odor Of Yesterday's Unrecollected Sins.

Like A Historian, I Interpret, Select, Discard, Shape, Simplify. Unlike A Historian, I Make Up People's Thoughts.

When Narratives Fracture, When Words Fail, I Take Consolation From The Part Of My Life That Always Works: The Stationery Order. The Mail-order Stationery People Supply Every Need From Royal Blue Quink To A Dazzling Variety Of Portable Hard Drives.