In Its Conception The Literature Prize Belongs

He Would Not Mind Hearing Petrus's Story One Day. But Preferably Not Reduced To English. More And More He Is Convinced That English Is An Unfit Medium For The Truth Of South Africa. Stretches Of English Code Whole Sentences Long Have Thickened, Lost Their Articulations, Their Articulateness, Their Articulatedness. Like A Dinosaur Expiring And Settling In The Mud, The Language Has Stiffened. Pressed Into The Mold Of English, Petrus's Story Would Come Out Arthritic, Bygone"(117).

She Gives Him What He Can Only Call A Sweet Smile. 'so You Are Determined To Go On Being Bad. Mad, Bad, And Dangerous To Know. I Promise, No One Will Ask You To Change.

His Own Opinion, Which He Does Not Air, Is That The Origin Of Speech Lie In Song, And The Origins Of Song In The Need To Fill Out With Sound The Overlarge And Rather Empty Human Soul.

One Thought Alone Preoccupies The Submerged Mind Of Empire: How Not To End, How Not To Die, How To Prolong Its Era. By Day It Pursues Its Enemies. It Is Cunning And Ruthless, It Sends Its Bloodhounds Everywhere. By Night It Feeds On Images Of Disaster: The Sack Of Cities, The Rape Of Populations, Pyramids Of Bones, Acres Of Desolation.

And Anyway, I Suspect He Secretly Liked It When A Woman Was Cold And Distant