My Body Was Braille For The Creeping

Irish Readers, British Readers, American Readers: Is It Odd That I Haven't A Clue About How Differently They React? Or Better Say, I Cannot Find The Words To Describe My Hunch About Them.

The Whole Relationship Between A Writer's Spiritual/emotional Condition And The Kind Of Wordstuff And Form-making That's Going On In His Work Is An Interesting One. When I Was An Undergraduate, There Was A Glib Notion Around That There Was No Reason To Suppose A Bad Man Could Be A Good Writer.

I've Always Associated The Moment Of Writing With A Moment Of Lift, Of Joy, Of Unexpected Reward.

Smile As You Find A Rhythm Working You, Slow Mile By Mile, Into Your Proper Haunt.

No Bit Of The Natural World Is More Valuable Or More Vulnerable Than The Tree Bit. Nothing Is More Like Ourselves, Standing Upright, Caught Between Heaven And Earth, Frail At The Extremities, Yet Strong At The Central Trunk, And Nothing Is Closer To Us At The Beginning And At The End, Providing The Timber Boards That Frame Both The Cradle And The Coffin.