A Man In A Desert

There Was Always, He Thought, This Pleasure Ahead Of Him, An Ace Of Joy Up His Sleeve So He Could Say You Can Do Anything To Me, Take Everything Away, Put Me In Prison, But I Will Know [her] When We Are Old.

You're Getting Everyone's Point Of View At The Same Time, Which For Me, Is The Perfect State For A Novel: A Cubist State, The Cubist Novel.

Read Him Slowly, Dear Girl, You Must Read Kipling Slowly. Watch Carefully Where The Commas Fall So You Can Discover The Natural Pauses. He Is A Writer Who Used Pen And Ink. He Looked Up From The Page A Lot, I Believe, Stared Through His Window And Listened To Birds, As Most Writers Who Are Alone Do. Some Do Not Know The Names Of Birds, Though He Did. Your Eye Is Too Quick And North American. Think About The Speed Of His Pen. What An Appalling, Barnacled Old First Paragraph It Is Otherwise.

Her Life With Others No Longer Interests Him. He Wants Only Her Stalking Beauty, Her Theatre Of Expressions. He Wants The Minute Secret Reflection Between Them, The Depth Of Field Minimal, Their Foreignness Intimate Like Two Pages Of A Closed Book.

Death Means You Are In The Third Person.