To Take Possession Of A City Of

In Order Really To Write One Has To Sink Deep Into The Self And Become Lost There.

Yes, This Is What I Thought Adulthood Would Be, A Kind Of Long Indian Summer, A State Of Tranquility, Of Calm Incuriousness, With Nothing Left Of The Barely Bearable Raw Immediacy Of Childhood, All The Things Solved That Had Puzzled Me When I Was Small, All Mysteries Settled, All Questions Answered, And The Moments Dripping Away, Unnoticed Almost, Drip By Golden Drip, Toward The Final, Almost Unnoticed, Quietus.

For Memory, We Use Our Imagination. We Take A Few Strands Of Real Time And Carry Them With Us, Then Like An Oyster We Create A Pearl Around Them.

With The Crime Novels, Its Delightful To Have Protagonists I Can Revisit In Book After Book. Its Like Having A Fictitious Family.

Enormous Morning, Ponderous, Meticulous; Gray Light Streaking Each Bare Branch, Each Single Twig, Along One Side, Making Another Tree, Of Glassy Veins.