I Deem As Heroic Those Who Have

My Idea Of Writing Is Of Unflinching And Continual Effort, Somehow Trying To Find The Right Words Until You Reach A Point Where You Can Make No Further Progress And You Either Have Something Or You Don’t.

I'd Say The Biggest Relationship Is The Repetition Of Certain Themes. I Don't Want To Say "topics," But Certain Points Of Interest.

I Write Down Portions, Maybe Fragments, And Perhaps An Imperfect View Of What Im Hoping To Write. Out Of That, I Keep Trying To Find Exactly What I Want.

Solitude. One Knows Instinctively It Has Benefits That Must Be More Deeply Satisfying Than Those Of Other Conditions, But Still It Is Difficult.

One Is Seduced And Battered In Turn. The Result Is Presumably Wisdom. Wisdom! We Are Clinging To Life Like Lizards. Why Is It So Difficult To Assemble Those Things That Really Matter In Life And To Dwell Among Them Only? I Am Referring To Certain Landscapes, Persons, Beasts, Books, Rooms, Meteorological Conditions, Fruits. In Fact, I Insist On It. A Letter Is Like A Poem, It Leaps Into Life And Shows Very Clearly The Marks, Perhaps I Should Say Thumbprints, Of An Unwilling Or Unready Composer.