For What Can Be Imagined

Perhaps He Was A Fool, But He Thought That If A Work Were Truly Great You Would Only Have To Read It Once And You Would Be Stolen From Yourself, Desperately Moved, Changed Forever.

The Streets Of New York And Some Wards Of Its Venerable Institutions Were Packed With People Who, Despite Being Entirely Forsaken, Had Episodes Of Glory That Made The Career Of Alexander The Great Seem Like A Day In The Life Of A File Clerk.

Winter Then In Its Early And Clear Stages, Was A Purifying Engine That Ran Unhindered Over City And Country, Alerting The Stars To Sparkle Violently And Shower Their Silver Light Into The Arms Of Bare Upreaching Trees. It Was A Mad And Beautiful Thing That Scoured Raw The Souls Of Animals And Man, Driving Them Before It Until They Loved To Run. And What It Did To Northern Forests Can Hardly Be Described, Considering That It Iced The Branches Of The Sycamores On Chrystie Street And Swept Them Back And Forth Until They Rang Like Ranks Of Bells.

I Follow My Own Nose. So I Read Things That Are Different. People Will Always Say To Me, "have You Read Robert S. Bosco's Latest Novel?" Or "have You Read So And So's History Of Peru, Which Is Reviewed In The New York Review Of Books And The New York Times And Has A Buzz About It?" I Don't Even Know What You're Talking About. I'm Like From Another Planet. I'm A Pygmy From The Jungle.

Accident Is As Much A Part Of Fiction As Anything Else, Symbolic Of The Grace That, Along With Will, Conspires To Put Words On The Page.