Whoever's reading this, if anyone is reading it: does it matter that our old selves are lost to us as surely as the past is lost, or is it enough to know yes we lived then, and we are living now, and the connection must be there? Like a river hundreds of miles long exists both at its source and at its mouth, simultaneously?

Paradox: how do we know what we have failed to see because we have no language to express it, thus we cannot know that we have failed to see it.

Yet the fact had no consciousness of itself except through me.

Critics sometimes appear to be addressing themselves to works other than those I remember writing.

Sometimes I read reviews, and without exception I will read critical essays that are sent to me. The critical essays are interesting on their own terms.

God's blessing is not always to be distinguished from His wrath.

I am more or less reading all the time.