I think the writer has to be responsible to signs and dreams. If you don't do anything with it, you lose it.

Words at night were feral things.

Of course there is nothing that cannot be done incorrectly.

Many writers today are wanderers. There is not only an unhousedness in language - how to convey, to say nothing of converge - but an unhousedness of place.

You don't believe in Nature anymore. It's too isolated from you. You've abstracted it. It's so messy and damaged and sad. Your eyes glaze as you travel life's highway past all the crushed animals and the Big Gulp cups.

Writers when they're writing live in a spooky, clamorous silence, a state somewhat like the advanced stages of prayer but without prayer's calming benefits.

I believe in guilt. There's not enough guilt around these days for my taste.