Writing was the soul of everything else ... Wanting to be a writer was wanting to be a person.
Here, in memory, we live and die.
Writing about why you write is a funny business, like scratching what doesn't itch. Impulses are mysterious, and explaining them must be done with mirrors, like certain cunning slight-of-hand routines.
What is remembered is what becomes reality.
Maybe being oneself is always an acquired taste.
landscape, that vast still life, invites description, not narration. It is lyric. It has no story: it is the beloved, and asks only to be contemplated.