Much Of Living Is An Attempt To

I Had A Cousin Once Who Lived In Your Dictionary, Inside The Binding, And There Was A Tiny Hole Which He Used For A Door, And It Led Out Between Trichotomy And Trick. Now What Do You Think Of That? It Was Only A Few Minutes Walk To Trigger, Then Over The Page To Trinity, Trinket And Trional, And There My Cousin Used To Fall Asleep.

Every Morning I Woke In Dread, Waiting For The Day Nurse To Go On Her Rounds And Announce From The List Of Names In Her Hand Whether Or Not I Was For Shock Treatment, The New And Fashionable Means Of Quieting People And Of Making Them Realize That Orders Are To Be Obeyed And Floors Are To Be Polished Without Anyone Protesting And Faces Are To Be Made To Be Fixed Into Smiles And Weeping Is A Crime.

I Inhabited A Territory Of Loneliness Which Resembles The Place Where The Dying Spend Their Time Before Death, And From Where Those Who Do Return, Living, To The World Bring, Inevitably, A Unique Point Of View That Is A Nightmare, A Treasure, And A Lifelong Possession.[it Is] Equal In Its Rapture And Chilling Exposure [to] The Neighbourhood Of The Ancient Gods And Goddesses.

The Only Certainty About Writing And Trying To Be A Writer Is That It Has To Be Done, Not Dreamed Of Or Planned And Never Written, Or Talked About (the Ego Eventually Falls Apart Like A Soaked Sponge), But Simply Written; It's A Dreadful, Awful Fact That Writing Is Like Any Other Work.

He Sees The Land Of Meaning, And One Path To It, And The So-called “normal” People Traveling Swiftly And In Comfort To The Land; He Does Not Include The Shipwrecked People Who Arrive By Devious Lonely Routes, And The Many Who Dwell In The Land In The Beginning.