I Roam Around A Lot In My

It Is The Job Of Artists To Open Doors And Invite In Prophesies, The Unknown, The Unfamiliar; It’s Where Their Work Comes From, Although Its Arrival Signals The Beginning Of The Long Disciplined Process Of Making It Their Own. Scientists Too, As J. Robert Oppenheimer Once Remarked, ‘live Always At The ‘edge Of Mystery’­—the Boundary Of The Unknown.’ But They Transform The Unknown Into The Known, Haul It In Like Fishermen; Artists Get You Out Into That Dark Sea.

The Magic Of The Street Is The Mingling Of The Errand And The Epiphany.

Too Many Of Us Seem Far Too Fond Of Narratives Of Our Powerlessness, Maybe Because Powerlessness Lets Us Off The Hook... But We Don't Need Everyone On Board; We Don't Need One Magic Person In Office; We Need Ourselves. To Act. It's The Wind, Not The Weathervanes.

They Are All Beasts Of Burden In A Sense, ' Thoreau Once Remarked Of Animals, 'made To Carry Some Portion Of Our Thoughts.' Animals Are The Old Language Of The Imagination; One Of The Ten Thousand Tragedies Of Their Disappearance Would Be A Silencing Of This Speech.

I Sometimes Wonder What Those Of Us Who Are Writers Would Become In A Nonliterary Culture - Storytellers? Hermits?