Only The Dying Man Can Tell How

That Was The Year, My Twenty-eighth, When I Was Discovering That Not All Of The Promises Would Be Kept, That Some Things Are In Fact Irrevocable And That It Had Counted After All, Every Evasion And Every Procrastination, Every Mistake, Every Word, All Of It.

To Believe In'the Greater Good' Isto Operate, Necessarily, In A Certain Ethical Suspension.

It Occurs To Me That We Allow Ourselves To Imagine Only Such Messages As We Need To Survive.

Writing Is Always A Way, For Me, Of Coming To Some Sort Of Understanding That I Can't Reach Otherwise.it Forces You To Think. It Forces You To Work The Thing Through. Nothing Comes To Us Out Of The Blue, Very Easily.

The Past Could Be Jettisoned . . . But Seeds Got Carried.