...isn't it odd that the only language I have in which to speak of this crime is the language of the criminal who committed the crime? - Jamaica Kincaid

How soft is the blackness as it falls. It falls in silence and yet it is deafening, for no other sound except the blackness falling can be heard. The blackness falls like soot from a lamp with an untrimmed wick. The blackness is visible and yet it is invisible, for I see that I cannot see it. The blackness fills up a small room, a large field, an island, my own being. The blackness cannot bring me joy but often I am made glad in it.”

I suppose that my work is always mourning something, the loss of a paradise—not the thing that comes after you die, but the thing that you had before.

The past is a room full of baggage and rubbish and sometimes things that are of use, but if they are of real use, I have kept them.