Sunday, December 03, 2006


There is no end to the stories of sadness concerning the World Trade Center.

Writers at work. I especially like the Robert Burns one, and Emily Dickinson, too. Those two come closest to my situation. I inhabit writing. It's where I live most of the time, and as time goes on I am discovering that it makes me awkward outside of that cubby I hole up in. Not that I'm alone there. No writer is. There's a cast of thousands in there, all vying for attention, competing with real voices, real lives, the fragments of observation we take from our canvases of the outside world. I've been reading Paul Auster's The Art of Hunger, and in some of the interviews reprinted in the book, he talks about solitude - not as a choice, or necessity, but a simple human reflex. We're all alone. We know only our own thoughts, our own perspective. Writers enter their solitude in search of another's thoughts, another's perspective, novels a letter between minds, a paper bridge.

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