Life Passes Into Pages If

There Is No Complete Life. There Are Only Fragments. We Are Born To Have Nothing, To Have It Pour Through Our Hands. And Yet, This Pouring, This Flood Of Encounters, Struggles, Dreams...

I Like Aristocracy. I Like The Beauty Of Aristocracy. I Like The Hierarchical Feeling.

One Is Seduced And Battered In Turn. The Result Is Presumably Wisdom. Wisdom! We Are Clinging To Life Like Lizards. Why Is It So Difficult To Assemble Those Things That Really Matter In Life And To Dwell Among Them Only? I Am Referring To Certain Landscapes, Persons, Beasts, Books, Rooms, Meteorological Conditions, Fruits. In Fact, I Insist On It. A Letter Is Like A Poem, It Leaps Into Life And Shows Very Clearly The Marks, Perhaps I Should Say Thumbprints, Of An Unwilling Or Unready Composer.

When I'm Filling Notebooks I'm Trying To Pin Down What I'm Really Interested In And To Find Those Details That Are So Hard To Come By, Details That I Can Look At And Believe Are Right On The Mark. Things Which Bring A Novel To Life. They Can Take A While To Come.

I Write Down Portions, Maybe Fragments, And Perhaps An Imperfect View Of What Im Hoping To Write. Out Of That, I Keep Trying To Find Exactly What I Want.