THE SHORT, HAPPY HISTORY OF A WRITING LIFE :

I was one who studied the end of life on planet Earth. It seemed reasonable, in youth, that such a fate awaited the future. "Ah, the end of life, the end of the human prospect...." There was a stubborn egotism that didn't allow for such a view but, then, something large and real made me realize that it was probable and what, then, was the writer's response?

After all, the weapons were not myths. And their delivery systems were not myths. It made it absurd to continue as though nothing had happened or nothing need change. To the poetic consciousness the absurdity appeared fatal and, in fact, I was convinced great and wonderful things had to happen.

That anything less than the fantastic discovery of new form, new imaginative horizons, new aspirations was a sacrifice to the demoralization brought on by the blight of the modern world.

It's quite shocking to take this view into society and see the responses one gets.

But, I was convinced that an utterly new thing had to come into play. The only thing that is not conditioned is the poetic imagination.

Therein is the tale of a thing or two.

Freedom experienced as a splendid future!

One thing that I fought with and that was the status and nature of the novel. I felt that the novel had been stripped various ways by modern technology. That the writer should leave off "telling stories" in this form and focus or extract the very best qualities embedded in novels; insight, vision, and connectedness with a sense of place. Those were the great qualities of the novel.

But those qualities could be developed any number of ways. The novel was reduced down and shuttered in by the growth of so many things outside the dimension of the novel. Better to move to exciting new ways of presenting the essence of those qualities the novel once embedded in so many delightful, dynamic ways.

If the novel is not an expression of our freedom, then what is it?

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A TABLE OF CONTENTS

Madeleine was at the window looking out over the noon crowd that moved in and out of the street with the awkward, persistent desire to be somewhere they weren't.

As the bus approached the river, up the Sierra Nevada toward Tahoe, he knew it would cruise down the long highway through Sacramento and over the green bridge over the Sacramento River and on toward the Bay Area. He lit a cigarette. Then he pulled out the book he was reading. It was a popularization of psychological theories that put into practice on a daily basis would improve his smile, his regularity, and make him a god as well.

The world, centered in our reveries, leaps alive at the slightest suggestion of our freedom. We would bang away on the scabby shield that keeps us from the truth. Where are the guardians? It is nearly a chant we learn. Where are the guardians? Ah, they may be watching television!

The sky immense? Is there not another sky in another universe? We are made real by what connects us with distant skies of the common universe. Perhaps, one day, we roll into a valley unmarked by the species that destroys

Passion is the bitter thing life shows itself to be in dreams. So pessimism descends, dropping down into an unannounced corridor. A world of darkness; a wonderful darkness, a kind of layer of bedding between himself and the hot atmosphere in the light of day.

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