Read the whole review here.
*and very wet. There's a lot of water slopping round in Cold Hands: Warm Heart.
We are insensate molecules, assembled from the accidental code engraved on our genes. Mud that sat up. We reproduce, mathematically predictable as spores within a petri dish. We function briefly, then subside once more into the unknowing silt. We are a blind contingency, an unimportant restlessness of dirt - and yet Rosetti paints his dead Elizabeth, head tilted back on her impossibly slim throat, eyes closed against the golden light surrounding her. Clay looks on clay, and understands that it is beautiful. Through us, the cosmos gazes on itself, adores itself, breaks its own heart. Through us, matter stares slack-jawed at its own star-dusted countenance and knows, incredulously, that it knows.
(from Snakes and Ladders)
Now in 2006 Moore, along with artist Melinda Gebbie (whom he later married) published an enormous erotic novel called Lost Girls, which is all about how great he thinks porn is. Here they are, by the way:
Don't mind me, I'm just experimenting with uploading my own video footage to Blogger. This means, I suppose, that I could video-blog ... except that I can't stand the sound of my own recorded voice.
It's fairly old footage: Forest the yellow dog is no longer alive these days. We were on holiday in the Lake District at a lovely farm that had a dog-exercising field. They're not chasing anything, by the way - they just love to run.