If I Dreamt This, While Walking, Walking

Mumbling Obeisance To Abhorrence Of Apartheid Is Like Those Lapsed Believers Who Cross Themselves When Entering A Church.

Well, You Know, In The Fundamentalist Milieu Of The Afrikaners, There Was A Sense That They Were A Chosen People, That They Were Bringing Civilization To The Blacks.

Writing Is Making Sense Of Life.

The Country Of The Tourist Pamphlet Always Is Another Country, An Embarrassing Abstraction Of The Desirable That, Thank God, Does Not Exist On This Planet, Where There Are Always Ants And Bad Smells And Empty Coca-cola Bottles To Keep The Grubby Finger-print Of Reality Upon The Beautiful.

I Never Talk About What I'm Writing About Currently, Never. It's Private Work On Your Own, No Need Or Obligation To Talk About It. Writers Are Made Into Performers These Days, Including Myself, But There Are Some Instances In Which I Will Not Perform.