The World Was A World Of Dreaming

Behind Every Writer Stands A Very Large Bookshelf.

I Grew Up During The Cold War, When Everything Seemed Very Tenuous. For Many Years, Right Up Until The Fall Of The Berlin Wall, I Had Vivid Nightmares Of Nuclear Apocalypse.

It Was What You Did, Wolgast Understood; You Started To Tell A Story About Who You Were, And Soon Enough The Lies Were All You Had And You Became That Person.

There Was Something In The Pages Of These Books That Had The Power To Make Him Feel Better About Things, A Life Raft To Cling To Before The Dark Currents Of Memory Washed Him Downstream Again, And On Brighter Days, He Could Even See Himself Going On This Way For Some Time. A Small But Passable Life. And Then, Of Course, The End Of The World Happened.

And I Had Always Liked Vampire Stories Because They Are Great Material That Can Be Refashioned In Lots Of Ways.