No Two Things The Same, The Equals

I Am The Worst Judge Of My Books.

I Had Never Liked, Even Feared A Little, This Wild Reach Of Marsh And Mud Flats Where Everything Seemed Turned Away From The Land, Looking Off Desperately Toward The Horizon As If In Mute Search For A Sign Of Rescue.

Enormous Morning, Ponderous, Meticulous; Gray Light Streaking Each Bare Branch, Each Single Twig, Along One Side, Making Another Tree, Of Glassy Veins.

The Booker Prize Is A Big, Popular Prize For Big, Popular Books, And That's The Way It Should Be.

How Flat All Sounds Are At The Seaside, Flat And Yet Emphatic, Like The Sound Of Gunshots Heard At A Distance.