Ours is a lost generation, it may be, but it is more blameless than those earlier generations.
The various forms of despair at the various stations on the road.
A picture of my existence... would show a useless wooden stake covered in snow... stuck loosely at a slant in the ground in a ploughed field on the edge of a vast open plain on a dark winter night.
In a way, I was safe writing
Writing is a sweet, wonderful reward.
The meaning of life is that it stops.