Much of the time he was caught up in one story or another, a story being a scheme in which discrete decision-points punctuate intervals in which everything is dictated by external causality, including his own actions, and where an evolving series of relationships determine the range of paths which he is free to embark upon, as if these are questions he can put and then wait and see what the answer will be, although most of the time it is only further questions that come. This kind of thing goes on and on in a dance of varied formations that almost perfectly repeat over and over again never quite exhausting a dismally small set of elements in permutation, his materials. He lives this thing with all his no longer young forces as it circles on itself and blindly resumes without ever counting the entrances and exits. Put down like this it is recognisable but there is no clue to what makes it so inescapable, so absorbing. He is simultaneously in it and out of it, he sees its horizon and by that is already some way beyond the horizon, but it is just this hint of transcendence, of being superior to the play, that provides the motive power that keeps him pushing for the apparent goals, giving life to the feelings generated by the raisings up and the tumblings down, his all too operatic personae, that are the inevitable, the algebraic, accommodations of the game.