Writing is a lonely occupation at best. Of course there are stimulating and even happy associations with friends and colleagues, but during the actual work of creation the writer cuts himself off from all others and confronts his subject alone. He moves into a realm where he has never been before -- perhaps where no one has ever been.
It is a lonely place, and even a little frightening... No writer can stand still. He continues to create or he perishes. Each task completed carries its own obligation to go on to something new...
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Rachel Carson on writing
Writing is a lonely occupation at best. Of course there are stimulating and even happy associations with friends and colleagues, but during the actual work of creation the writer cuts himself off from all others and confronts his subject alone. He moves into a realm where he has never been before -- perhaps where no one has ever been. It is a lonely place, and even a little frightening... No writer can stand still. He continues to create or he perishes. Each task completed carries its own obligation to go on to something new...
Rachel Carson on writing
Writing is a lonely occupation at best. Of course there are stimulating and even happy associations with friends and colleagues, but during the actual work of creation the writer cuts himself off from all others and confronts his subject alone. He moves into a realm where he has never been before -- perhaps where no one has ever been. It is a lonely place, and even a little frightening... No writer can stand still. He continues to create or he perishes. Each task completed carries its own obligation to go on to something new...
The Black Hen by A K Ramanujan
It must come as leaves
to a tree
or not at all
yet it comes sometimes
as the black hen
with the red round eye
on the embroidery
stitch by stitch
dropped and found again
and when it's all there
the black hen stares
with its red round eye
and you're afraid.
to a tree
or not at all
yet it comes sometimes
as the black hen
with the red round eye
on the embroidery
stitch by stitch
dropped and found again
and when it's all there
the black hen stares
with its red round eye
and you're afraid.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Reading
Reading
Maybe he was drunk
maybe he was too sober
Maybe he was sleepy
maybe he had just woken
Maybe he was hungry
maybe he had overeaten
Maybe he was old
maybe he hadn't grown up
Maybe he was weary
maybe he had too much energy
Maybe he was right
maybe he was wrong
Maybe he was blind
maybe he just couldn't read
Maybe he was drunk
maybe he was too sober
Maybe he was sleepy
maybe he had just woken
Maybe he was hungry
maybe he had overeaten
Maybe he was old
maybe he hadn't grown up
Maybe he was weary
maybe he had too much energy
Maybe he was right
maybe he was wrong
Maybe he was blind
maybe he just couldn't read
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