It Is A Long Baptism Into The

The Clock Talked Loud. I Threw It Away, It Scared Me What It Talked.

Literary History And The Present Are Dark With Silences . . . I Have Had Special Need To Learn All I Could Of This Over The Years, Myself So Nearly Remaining Mute And Having To Let Writing Die Over And Over Again In Me. These Are Not Natural Silences--what Keats Called Agonie Ennuyeuse (the Tedious Agony)--that Necessary Time For Renewal, Lying Fallow, Gestation, In The Natural Cycle Of Creation. The Silences I Speak Of Here Are Unnatural: The Unnatural Thwarting Of What Struggles To Come Into Being, But Cannot.

It Is Distraction, Not Meditation, That Becomes Habitual; Interruption, Not Continuity; Spasmodic, Not Constant Toil.

Literature Is A Place For Generosity And Affection And Hunger For Equals - Not A Prizefight Ring. We Are Increased, Confirmed In Our Medium, Roused To Do Our Best, By Every Good Writer, Every Fine Achievement. Would We Want One Good Writer Or Fine Book Less? The Sense Of Writers Being Pitted Against Each Other Is Bred Primarily By The Workings Of The Commercial Marketplace, And By Critics Lauding One Writer At The Expense Of Another While Ignoring The Existence Of Nearly All.

Better Immersion Than To Live Untouched.