It's A Terrible Thing, Isn't It, The

Some Say I'm An Overnight Success. Well, That Was A Very Long Night That Lasted About 10 Years. But While I Do, Of Course, Now Feel The Pressure Having Had Books That Have Been Very Successful, I Just Know I Have To Concentrate On Writing For Myself. I Can't Worry About Genres Or Markets Or What Might Be Commercial Or Not. That Never Works.

I've Heard It Said That Children Born To Stressful Times Never Shake The Air Of Woe . . . .

Time Had A Way Of Moulding People Into Shapes They Themselves No Longer Recognised.

Thinking Of Nothing. Trying To Think Of Nothing. Thinking Of Everything.

Cassandra Wondered At The Mind's Cruel Ability To Toss Up Flecks Of The Past. Why, As She Neared Her Life's End, Her Grandmother's Head Should Ring With The Voices Of People Long Since Gone. Was It Always This Way? Did Those With Passage Booked On Death's Silent Ship Always Scan The Dock For Faces Of The Long-departed?