Believe That A Further Shore Is Reachable

Between My Finger And My Thumb The Squat Pen Rests; Snug As A Gun. ~from The Poem "digging

I Have Begun To Think Of Life As A Series Of Ripples Widening Out From An Original Center.

I Suppose I Did Feel A Certain Public Pressure Always.

Once Off The Bush The Fruit Fermented, The Sweet Flesh Would Turn Sour. I Always Felt Like Crying. It Wasn't Fair That All The Lovely Canfuls Smelt Of Rot. Each Year I Hoped They'd Keep, Knew They Would Not. -blackberry Picking

The Whole Relationship Between A Writer's Spiritual/emotional Condition And The Kind Of Wordstuff And Form-making That's Going On In His Work Is An Interesting One. When I Was An Undergraduate, There Was A Glib Notion Around That There Was No Reason To Suppose A Bad Man Could Be A Good Writer.