... Too Much Brooding, Not Enough Doing.

I Write Against Violence. I Write Against Fascism. I Write Against One Person Dominating Another.

In The Dark That Followed - Lucy Said; "where I Was Born, The Trees Were Always In The Sun. And I Left That Place Because It Was Intolerant Of Rain. Now, We Are Here In A Place Where There Are No Trees And There Is Only Rain. And I Intend To Leave This Place - Because It Is Intolerant Of Light. Somewhere - There Must Be Somewhere Where Darkness And Light Are Reconciled. So I Am Starting A Rumour, Here And Now, Of Yet Another World. I Don't Know When It Will Present Itself - I Don't Know Where It Will Be. But - As With All Those Other Worlds Now Past When It Is Ready, I Intend To Go There.

Literature Was Intended To Be Dangerous. Art Was Meant To Be Dangerous. Ideas Were Nothing If They Were Not Dangerous.

He Said That In A Way Being Loved Is Like Being Told You Never Have To Die.

What You People Who Weren't Yet Born Can Never Know Is What It Meant To Sleep In Cities Under Silent Falls Of Snow When All Night Long The Only Sounds You Heard Were Dogs That Parked At Trains That Passed So Far Away They Took A Short Cut Through Your Dreams And No One Even Woke. It Was The War That Changed That. It Was. After The Great War For Civilization - Sleep Was Different Everywhere.