Yet, Like The Sea And The Gallows,

Oh, I Just Tend To Believe In Things When I'm Writing Them. For Instance, When I Was Writing 'doctor Dee,' I Believed In Magic. And When I Wrote 'hawksmoor' I Believed In Psychic Geography. But As Soon As I Type The Last Full Stop, I'm Back To Being A Complete Blank Again.

There Is A Word In Old English Which Belongs Wholly To That Civilization - "dustsceawung," Meaning Contemplation Of Dust. It Is A True Image Of The Anglo-saxon Mind, Or At Least An Echo Of That Consciousness Which Considered Transcience And Loss To Be Part Of The Human Estate; It Was A World In Which Life Was Uncertain And The Principal Diety Was Fate Or Destiny Or "wyrd."

I Am In The Pitte, But I Have Gone So Deep That I Can See The Brightness Of The Starres At Noon.

I Had To Paraphrase The Paraphrase.

My Great Fear Has Always Been Complete And Utter Failure. Hence, You See, All The Dispossessed People In My Fiction, And Why I Try To Earn As Much Money As I Can. It's A Defense. I Don't Enjoy It Or Do Anything With It.