They Are Travelling Cheaply, With That Touch

Then It Was Intoxicating. The Smooth Takeoff, And The Free Feeling Of Having The World Drop Away. Soon After Leaving The Ground, They Were Crossing Patches Of Stratus That Lay In The Valleys As Heavy And White As Glaciers. North For The First Time. It Was Still An Adventure, As Exciting As Love, As Frightening.

It Seems To Me That Literature Is Giving Way A Little Bit To The Immediacy Of Other Diversions, Other Forms Of Entertainment. What Will It Be In Fifty Years? I Don't Know. Will There Be Printed Books? Probably, But I'm Not Sure. There's Always Going To Be Literature, Though. I Believe That. I Think Literature Has A Way Of Getting Deep Into People And Being Essential. Literature Has Its Own Powers.

We Dash The Black River, Its Flats Smooth As Stone. Not A Ship, Not A Dinghy, Not One Cry Of White. The Water Lies Broken, Cracked From The Wind. This Great Estuary Is Wide, Endless. The River Is Brackish, Blue With The Cold. It Passes Beneath Us Blurring. The Sea Birds Hang Above It, They Wheel, Disappear. We Flash The Wide River, A Dream Of The Past. The Deeps Fall Behind, The Bottom Is Paling The Surface, We Rush By The Shallows, Boats Beached For Winter, Desolate Piers. And On Wings Like The Gulls, Soar Up, Turn, Look Back.

Events Need Their Invitation, Dissolutions Their Start.

My Idea Of Writing Is Of Unflinching And Continual Effort, Somehow Trying To Find The Right Words Until You Reach A Point Where You Can Make No Further Progress And You Either Have Something Or You Don’t.