In The Desert You Celebrate Nothing But

You Want To Suggest Something New, But At The Same Time, Resolve The Drama Of The Action In The Novel.

I Am Not In Love With Him, I Am In Love With Ghosts. So Is He, He's In Love With Ghosts.

Read Him Slowly, Dear Girl, You Must Read Kipling Slowly. Watch Carefully Where The Commas Fall So You Can Discover The Natural Pauses. He Is A Writer Who Used Pen And Ink. He Looked Up From The Page A Lot, I Believe, Stared Through His Window And Listened To Birds, As Most Writers Who Are Alone Do. Some Do Not Know The Names Of Birds, Though He Did. Your Eye Is Too Quick And North American. Think About The Speed Of His Pen. What An Appalling, Barnacled Old First Paragraph It Is Otherwise.

He Came To This Country Like A Torch On Fire And He Swallowed Air As He Walked Forward And He Gave Out Light

Her Life With Others No Longer Interests Him. He Wants Only Her Stalking Beauty, Her Theatre Of Expressions. He Wants The Minute Secret Reflection Between Them, The Depth Of Field Minimal, Their Foreignness Intimate Like Two Pages Of A Closed Book.