One writes as a solitary, as a prisoner forgotten in a dungeon, as a sort of communal negation; yet simultaneously one longs to speak to a reader who comprehends a particular, impelled, spoken, shared silence.
But one hopes mostly in vain--at least, that's how I feel as I sit here at my dusty desk, watching the sparse flat fingers of morning sunlight slip through the spruce branches, through my small bedroom windows.
Being me is the loneliest profession on earth. And you, all of you, are mysterious to me, all of you who read these words. Perhaps readers are a writer's most puzzling gift.
2 comments:
I understand in the oddest of ways.
I ordered coconut ice cream the night before Obama did at the same shop in Bar Harbor. Once while deep in winter camping in the back country a golden eagle plucked our rabbits from their soaking place down a hole in the ice. I saw it happen and frightened the giant bird off. He left half a rabbit behind. Steve and I ate it.
Wow. That eagle story is something else.
Post a Comment