Power May Be At The End Of

I Leave You Free To Imagine Any Dialogue You Please. Choose Whatever May Charm You. Have It, If You Like, That They Hear The Voice Of The Blood, Or That They Fall In Love At First Sight... Conceive The Wildest Improbabilities. Have It That The Depths Of Their Beings Are Thrilled At Accosting Each Other In Slang. Tangle Them Suddenly In A Swift Embrace Or A Brotherly Kiss. Do Whatever You Like.

They Remain Dead, The People I Try To Resuscitate By Straining To Hear What They Say. But The Illusion Is Not Pointless, Or Not Quite, Even If The Reader Knows All This Better Than I Do. One Thing A Book Tries To Do, Beneath The Disguise Of Words And Causes And Clothes And Grief, Is Show The Skeleton And The Skeleton Dust To Come. The Author Too, Like Those Of Whom He Speaks, Is Dead.

On Him, Under Him, With His Mouth Pressed To Hers, He Sang To Her Uncouth Songs That Moved Through Her Body.

...the Characters In My Books All Resemble Each Other. They Live, With Minor Variations, The Same Moments, The Same Perils, And When I Speak Of Them, My Language, Which Is Inspired By Them, Repeats The Same Poems In The Same Tone.

One Can Hear All That's Going On In The Street. Which Means That From The Street One Can Hear What's Going On In This House.