A Word Is Worth One Coin, Silence

I Looked At My Right Hand, The Hand With Which I Painted. There Was Power In That Hand. Power To Create And Destroy. Power To Bring Pleasure And Pain. Power To Amuse And Horrify. There Was In That Hand The Demonic And The Divine At One And The Same Time. The Demonic And The Divine Were Two Aspects Of The Same Force. Creation Was Demonic And Divine. Creativity Was Demonic And Divine. I Was Demonic And Divine.

I Won't Talk To You About My Family And You Won't Talk To Me About Yours. Family Talk Is Either Boring Or Self-pitying. Or It's Gothic, Like A Faulkner Novel. Who Needs To Talk About It? It's Enough To Live It.

You Have To Want To Listen To It, And Then You Can Hear It. It Has A Strange, Beautiful Texture. It Doesn't Always Talk. Sometimes-sometimes It Cries, And You Can Hear The Pain Of The World In It. It Hurts To Listen To It Then. But You Have To.

A Writer Is A Strange Instrument Of Our Species, A Harp Of Sorts, Fine-tuned To The Dark Contradictions Of Life.

I Think Most Serious Writers, Certainly In The Modern Period, Use Their Own Lives Or The Lives Of People Close To Them Or Lives They Have Heard About As The Raw Material For Their Creativity.