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A young writer meets with the startling fact that there is no real rhyme or reason to making a novel; it's meaningless in the sublime sense of the word and compelled by the same kind of holy ignorance that generates life. It has a theme, perhaps, a host of character and weaves through time a consistent vision; plays with language, enlarges images which prod the emotions toward action, seeks irony, rationalizes itself, goes through periods of neurosis. It has all the attributes of life. It is a great song really. The only qualification about making a novel is that the writer needs to be utterly sure of what he is doing. It's important that any conflict over the form of the novel be conscious and the writer works to resolve the conflict.

A sharp! concise effort on the emergence of sensibility. Out of the slag into awareness to the lip of awareness of new life; not merely a new outlook or deepened sense of value but a new life resulting from that deepening sense.

Then came the man riding by on a bike, baby on the back, man saying sadly, "why, why, why?"

After a while one is bored of sentiments like, "there's nothing one can do," or, "you have to do it alone," or, "don't trust them," or "go away and prove yourself."

A writer is often caught up between the desire to "muscle up" and use language in the physical way an athlete uses his body or the desire for more and more refinement until the sentence becomes a strain of music. This is resolved in the physical act itself.

Oh poet, assume you are the most powerful member of the society and act responsibly. Most of society is a quick vanish or a series of them. It is really a lovely and progressive thought.