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Yet, when the intellect is conned away from itself to let in other, lesser selves to walk out in the daylight aren't they revealed horrible things? And who else to cauterize the wound but the old grinder itself? There is utter nihilism and around the corner is complete doubt; fast down the street comes slimy desires and then those small and petty conclusions that fret this way and that like a bug under a hot light.

A decent writer starts off wanting to write novels in the way that Hugo, Steinbeck, and Zola did; huge sociological tracts of criticism that writers are sometimes weaned on. They could cut their teeth on lesser things. Then comes the psychological novel where each scene is constructed as a psychological state of mind and where action and thought try to fuse.



David Eide
eide491@earthlink.net 
© 2008 David Eide. All rights reserved.