I am awaiting
perpetually and forever
a renaissance of wonder
So why do I write, torturing myself to put it down? Because in spite of myself I’ve learned some things. Without the possibility of action, all knowledge comes to one labelled ‘file and forget’, and I can neither file nor forget.
Fiction is one of the few experiences where loneliness can be both confronted and relieved. Drugs, movies where stuff blows up, loud parties — all these chase away loneliness by making me forget my name’s Dave and I live in a one-by-one box of bone no other party can penetrate or know. Fiction, poetry, music, really deep serious sex, and, in various ways, religion — these are the places (for me) where loneliness is countenanced, stared down, transfigured, treated.
Writing is thinking. To write well is to think clearly. That’s why it’s so hard.
Books have always held a blatant erotic appeal for me. I get aroused standing in libraries and bookstores, being enveloped by the presence of language made corporal. The scent of books, the turning of pages, the engagement that reading demands…
For last year’s words belong to last year’s language
And next year’s words await another voice.
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
Sanity is a madness put to good uses.