Those things are facile, uninformed--flat mental pictures, the
writer’s craft.
I write what still voices of life: voices trivially frightful in
their secret pettiness: voices of all my life--merest living--say
to my ancient Soul and my young present Body and what they two may
answer.
I am in some sort a wonderful person--and in places I do that, nearly
perfectly.
I am also tired and someway whelmed by self-conscious despair,
and possessed of a talent imperfect and inadequate to reveal the
radiances and shades my being perceives: and in places I fail.
I fail remarkably. I write Eye when I mean Tooth. I write Fornicate
when I mean Caress. I write Wine when I mean Blood. For no better
reason than that my writing hand is not sufficiently dexterous: the
little flashing shutters open and shut so quick that the second ones
are shut and the third starting to open before I have got written the
things I saw through the first ones.
Only not always.
_A wild mare_