Haemophage

from the cradle of imagination

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"In that book which is my memory, on the first page of the chapter that is the day when I first met you appear the words: Here begins a new life." Misquote from La Vita Nuova, by Dante Alighieri.

"The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it." (from the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam)

Writing isn’t my only artistic outlet, but it is my most prolific means of creative expression. I love language, the beauty of language, the beauty of speech. But my muse is mercurial and on occasion she will abandon me for days, weeks even. If I appear to run dry, to clam up, to disappear, it is merely in anticipation of her return.

I love the way language tastes, the way it feels rolling over your tongue.

With language  I have an endless supply of toys: words. Meaningless utterance for its own sake becomes my equivalent of a Winnie the Pooh hum, my music. As others get tunes on their brain, I get words or phrases on the brain. I will awaken, for example, with a sentence on my lips. I will say it in the shower, while I wait for the kettle to boil, and as I open the morning post. Sometimes it will be with me all day. Language is a strange thing, but she is my mistress. (Stephen Fry)

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My real name is Dave, I'm 45 and I work for the Open University.

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