Sleep Is Uncanny, I Have Always Found It So, A Nightly Dress-rehearsal For Being Dead.
You Will Remember This When All Else Fades, This Moment, Here, Together, By This Well. There Will Be Certain Days, And Certain Nights, You’ll Feel My Presence Near You, Hear My Voice. You’ll Think You Have Imagined It And Yet, Inside You, You Will Catch An Answering Cry. On April Evenings, When The Rain Has Ceased, Your Heart Will Shake, You’ll Weep For Nothing, Pine For What’s Not There. For You, This Life Will Never Be Enough, There Will Forever Be An Emptiness, Where Once The God Was All In All In You.
Enormous Morning, Ponderous, Meticulous; Gray Light Streaking Each Bare Branch, Each Single Twig, Along One Side, Making Another Tree, Of Glassy Veins.
These Days I Must Take The World In Small And Carefully Measured Doses. It Is A Sort Of Homeopathic Cure I Am Undergoing, Though I Am Not Certain What This Cure Is Meant To Mend. Perhaps I Am Learning To Live Amongst The Living Again. Practising, I Mean. But No, That Is Not It. Being Here Is Just A Way Of Not Being Anywhere.
The Effect Of Prizes On One's Career - If That Is What To Call It - Is Considerable, Since They Give One More Clout With Publishers And More Notoriety Among Journalists. The Effect On One's Writing, However, Is Nil - Otherwise, One Would Be In Deep Trouble.
I Like Ideas. I Find Them More Exciting Than Human Behavior For The Most Part.
All I Wanted Was To Be Left Alone. They Abhor A Vacuum, Other People. You Find A Quiet Corner Where You Can Hunker Down In Peace, And The Next Minute There They Are, Crowding Around You In Their Party Hats, Tooting Their Paper Whistles In Your Face And Insisting You Get Up And Join In The Knees-up.
