The truth about the world, he said, is that anything is possible. Had you not seen it all from birth and thereby bled it of its strangeness it would appear to you for what it is, a hat trick in a medicine show, a fevered dream, a trance bepopulate with chimeras having neither analogue nor precedent, an itinerant carnival, a migratory tentshow whose ultimate destination after many a pitch in many a mudded field is unspeakable and calamitous beyond reckoning.
No arts； no letters； no society； and which is worst of all， continual fear and danger of violent death； and the life of man， solitary， poor， nasty， brutish， and short.
The subject matter is autobiographical, it's all to do with hope and memory and sensuality and involvement, really.
Fiction is a lie that tells the truth.