I’ve written
a goodly number of novels and novellas but they sometimes strike me as extra
burly flesh on the true bones of my life though a few of them approach some of
the conditions of poetry. There is
the additional, often shattering notion gotten from reading a great deal of
anthropology, that in poetry our motives are utterly similar to those who made
cave paintings or petroglyphs, so that studying your own work of the past is to
ruminate over artifacts, each one a signal, a remnant of a knot of perceptions
that bring back to life who and what you were at the time, the past texture of
what has to be termed as your “soul life.”
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