I Am Not Really A

When I First Began This Diary I Said I Would Give A Record Of My Inner Life. I Begin To Wonder If I Have Said Anything About My Inner Life. What If I Have No Inner Life?

Language, At Least, May Give Up The Secrets Of Life And Death, Leading Us Through The Maze To The Original Word As Monster Or Angel, To The Mournful Place Where We May Meet Job And Hear His Cry, 'how Long Will You Vex My Soul And Break Me In Pieces With Words?

They Think I'm Going To Be A Schoolteacher But I'm Going To Be A Poet.

All Writers Are Exiles Wherever They Live And Their Work Is A Lifelong Journey Towards The Lost Land.

Death Is A Dramatic Accomplishment Of Absence; Language May Be Almost As Effective.