A Man In A Desert Can Hold

Her Father Had Taught Her About Hands. About A Dog's Paws. Whenever Her Father Was Alone With A Dog In A House He Would Lean Over And Smell The Skin At The Base Of Its Paw. This, He Would Say, As If Coming Away From A Brandy Snifter, Is The Greatest Smell In The World! A Bouquet! Great Rumours Of Travel! She Would Pretend Disgust, But The Dog's Paw Was A Wonder: The Smell Of It Never Suggested Dirt. It's A Cathedral! Her Father Had Said, So-and-so's Garden, That Field Of Grasses, A Walk Through Cyclamen--a Concentration Of Hints Of All The Paths The Animal Had Taken During The Day.

I Tend Not To Know What The Plot Is Or The Story Is Or Even The Theme. Those Things Come Later, For Me.

You Are Doing Something Over Here And Over There Someone Is Telling You A Joke, Or Giving You An Important Piece Of Information About Sanitation, And No Matter How Weird The Other Subject Is, There Is A Connection, Or You Can Make A Connection. I’ve Always Loved History And History Is Collage, It Is A Juxtaposition Of The Good And The Bad And The Strange, And How You Place Those Sentences Together Changes The Whole Mood Of A History.

This Last Night We Tear Into Each Other, As If To Wound, As If To Find The Key To Everything Before Morning.

It Doubles Your Perception, To Write From The Point Of View Of Someone You're Not.